#giles is like (sighs) (rolls up sleeves) yeah.

[jennycalendar]

gje ask: how long do you think it takes before Ethan stops being utterly horrified by the concept that he actually genuinely likes Jenny as a person? bc i feel like that would be A While but also it would probably be very... a year in, a switch flips in his brain and she's suddenly his favorite non-Ripper person ever, but he still isn't going to SAY that so he's just. causing problems for anyone who annoys her as a weird fucked up form of affection.

so i think that initially ethan approaches his deep interest in jenny with horrified anthropological precision. like he is obsessively going out of his way to spend time with her and spying on all of her dates with giles and he is very clear to her, giles, and anyone who will listen to his loud and dramatic protestations that this is because he just Doesn’t Get what giles sees in jenny, but the reality of it is that he (like giles) got trapped in the That Woman Is Too Hot And Can’t Be Real sinkhole and (like giles) is handling it with all the maladaptive coping mechanisms that 20+ years of unaddressed emotional baggage have created. except with giles it’s all about I Don’t Deserve Jenny, but with ethan it’s I Must Undermine Jenny. he HAS to find the flaw in her code and prove that she’s not actually that hot and interesting and perfect, and OBVIOUSLY that means spending time with her because he is RESEARCHING, and eventually + inevitably he will find out the truth and bring this fakey too good to be true relationship CRASHING TO ITS KNEES. he is a genius.

meanwhile, jenny has started taking ethan to her favorite bookstores “for enrichment” and is debating him because she thinks chaos as a concept should be ambivalent to the notion of causing harm, not averting one’s eyes from it, which is what ethan does, which sure does seem like he cares!!!! so maybe he’s not that good at his job!!! and ethan starts fighting with her all the time and giles in the background is like Oh Fuck I See Where This Is Going and starts trying to frantically stop it from happening solely because he doesn’t think he can psychologically take having ethan and jenny as partners at the same time, BUT if presented the option will immediately grab it without hesitation, because something is clinically wrong with him.

in my head there is at some point an accidental kiss that absolutely fucks up both of them and both of them agonize over what giles will think. probably, because they are both so clinically stupid in the exact same way, they kissed in giles’s apartment, giles saw them, giles went “well, i really am at the whims of the universe and my two incredibly hot partners are definitely going to murder me,” and then giles went grocery shopping to give ethan and jenny some time to freak out as individuals.

i think that the switch gets flipped the instant the romantic component comes into play, but you are so right that the horror is immediate and perpetual. suddenly this is the most perfect person outside of giles and ethan would literally die for her in a way that is sorta very different from his experiences with giles??? because jenny is SO VULNERABLE in a way that means ethan’s usual brand of Emotional Violence As Romance is going to go SO BADLY and also make giles literally kill him. he knows from minute one that digging his claws into her insecurities is the very fastest way to lose her, simply because her heart is so so on her sleeve, and once she knows that you know that, if you do it deliberate and calculated damage for no other reason than Showing Her Up, you are done. i think he would be most horrified of the fact that he recognizes there are limits with jenny and feels a desire to respect those limits. (giles thinks this is fucking hilarious btw.)

there is probably this transitional period where jenny is emotionally vulnerable with ethan and he is awkwardly sweet in response and then as soon as she’s settled and it’s over he has to go outside and burn down half the front porch just to make himself feel better. giles is kinda like ok i guess i will take up gardening so you have more things to burn or something. they are developing a system.

so to answer your question ….. a year. that sounds about right. i do think that a year in someone makes jenny make a slightly hurt expression and ethan MASSIVELY overreacts and fucking stabs the guy with an actual knife. jenny is like “wow :)” and giles is like NO DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS. NO MORE STABBING. WE DID THIS ONCE ALREADY I LITERALLY CANNOT TAKE THIS AGAIN.

[prose-for-hire]

Supernatural Activity

Pairing: Rupert Giles x reader

Request: omgggg „dont mess with the cat“ and its the baby monitor“ and giles, maybe? that would be amaaazing

Requested by: Anon

Warning: swearing. 

c/n = cat’s name lol. I didn’t wanna assign a name you can do that! The cat is a boy though (sorry idk why I can change it if u want) 🖤🦇

You and Giles had moved in together. You had taken a while to find the perfect place, especially considering that you lived on top of a Hellmouth. A lot of properties were ridiculously good value because a surprising amount of suspicious deaths happened here. You had offered to move into the house he already lived in, but he insisted that you should have a house you could share that would be yours together.

You finally found one that was perfect, or what you had thought was perfect. 

You had been relaxing one Autumn evening, in front of the fire that Giles had just got going. Your cat was relaxing on your lap as Giles slid into the seat beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You closed your eyes, inhaling his familiar scent that enveloped you with his hug. 

You cosied up in front of the fire, wrapping your arms around his torso. You had more chance to relax around this time of year, Halloween was usually quiet and the younger people you usually helped out were busy going to parties and struggling with their social lives over the supernatural at the moment.

Giles had kissed the top of your head from the position you were in, now resting against his chest. You had been watching the television, or relaxing together with the tv on in the background. Except suddenly you heard this horrible noise. This crackling and popping. It was feedback. From some kind of device. A baby crying. Wailing for someone. 

You squinted around, starting to get freaked out. Something wasn;t right. The room felt cold, despite your body curled up beside Giles with the roaring fire. You looked up at him and he didn’t appear phased. You sat up properly, looking around. Squinting.

“Giles…” You say slowly. Giles had stayed in the same position, looking towards the television feigning boredom but he appeared to be into whatever it was taht was on. You had to take the remote and mute the sound, “Giles can you hear that?”

“Oh, it’s just the baby monitor” Giles muttered after listening a moment, cleaning his glasses and smiling at you as if this were the natural conclusion. You squinted at him, looking around in confusion.

“Giles… we don’t have a baby” You say slowly. This made him jump into action. Of course - you didn’t have a baby! He panicked, walking towards the noise.

You, against your better judgement, went with Giles to look around the house to check where the noise was coming from. C/n weaved between both of your legs, coming too. But he stopped on the landing, hissing and running off in the opposite direction.

It got louder as you walked towards the spare room. You tensed, taking Giles’ sleeve and tugging him back. You were scared, you didn’t want him to get hurt. He nodded reassuringly, sliding his hand into yours and clasping it tight. The door opened slowly, it revealed... nothing.

There was no movement. No noise and definitely no baby.

You exchanged a look, silently agreeing to just leave that room alone from then on. You didn’t speak much for the rest of the evening, still hyperaware of any noises in the house. You went to sleep earlier than usual, clinging to Giles as you tried in vain to get some sleep.

You had managed some brief sleep, however you had a bad feeling which woke you up. Then came a strangled noise and a crash. You ran out of bed, with Giles close behind, in time to see your cat starting to float in mid-air while it thrashed against whatever it was. His tail was bushy and standing on end with his sharp teeth exposed whilst he hissed at the invisible force.

You reached and scooped your cat and pulled him into you, scowling around at the room.

“I’m fucking warning you!” You point at the ceiling as if the spirit were floating there, “Don’t mess with the cat!” You shouted, hugging the little fluff ball closer to your chest to make sure you were protecting him. You had seen movies like this - the pet was usually the first to go. Not on your watch.

“Y/n is it really necessary to use that language?”

“Oh I’m sorry did you want me to invite the poltergeist into the kitchen for a cup of tea!?”

“No, of course not. It just isn’t wise to… rile it up” He said gently, knowing how protective you were of the cat. You had expressed more than once that it felt like a little family, with you, the cat and Giles. Which he had adored when you had revealed this to him. He really did love you. He nodded once in understanding, pressing a kiss against the side of your head. You softened, melting into it a little, before snapping your eyes back open and shouting, “It’s Halloween tomorrow aren’t you meant to have the day off?!” scowling up at the ceiling again.

The movement seemed to disappear. So you eventually padded back to your shared bed, setting your cat at the end of the bed to ensure he was safe. You both slipped back into bed and huddled together as you tried to get some sleep. Your anger dissipating with every soft touch Giles gave you in the safety of your shared bed. 

“We have to do something, sweetheart” You sigh, cuddling up to him. You weren’t fond of being haunted, it appeared.

“Let’s just, see what the spirit wants and see if we can, ah, assist. I will look up some books tomorrow” He muttered, stroking the back of your head softly. You nodded, well aware of his tendency to say a more polite version of what he really wanted to say.

“Can I bring c/n? please?” You whispered into his ear as you began to fall asleep nestled against his side.

The next morning was Halloween, a very busy day for you and Giles in the store you owned together. You usually enjoyed the day, but you were tired this morning and you snapped at Xander too many times so he threatened to walk.

This lead to you having to buy donuts to keep him sweet, which appeared to make him instantly your friend again. You explained yours and Giles’ predicament between the rush of customers and heard their suggestions which, although well-meaning, were entirely unhelpful. Your cat weaved between each customer, giving them a little entertainment whilst they waited in the long queues.

“Maybe you should get a priest?” Willow asked, using what appeared to be an entire roll of tape on a customers gift wrap. You were too busy reading a book on possession to supervise her properly so Anya snatched it from her and started to wrap it correctly.

“Yeah, you wanna go full-Exorcist. It is Halloween, G-man” Xander piped up and you let it slide with a mere eyeroll, seeing as you had snapped at him so much already today and Giles let him off with just a withering look.

You and Giles did a little more researching and decided the best way forwards was a ritual to reveal who you were dealing with and then one to cast out the spirit. You had everything lined up and you even colour coded the ritual into sections for him - you knew he loved it when you did that. 

You decided you should probably do it as soon as possible. You presented your plan to the group after you finally closed up and the tired Scoobies listened. Their faces twisting into panic as they realised it sounded like a group event.

“Do we, uh, all have to be there?” Buffy asked, looking around and trying to silently come up with an excuse with the others. You caught this and winked at her.

“Well, we could use all of the help that we can get” Giles said solemnly, well aware of the horrified faces of the young people around him. He was about to launch into a long speech about duty.

“No. You can go to your Halloween party! Giles, there are some things that have to be dealt with alone, it’s our responsibility. We can do it just fine” You looped your arms around his neck and left a few soft kisses against his slightly parted mouth, in case he was still trying to protest. The Scoobies all took this as their cue to get up and run out of the door before Giles could change his mind. Dawn had taken your cat in the carrier, so that he was safe while you spent your Halloween dealing with whatever it was that had moved into your house (or maybe you had moved into its house?).

You made it home, wincing slightly as you saw the state of your kitchen. All of the cupboards were open. Cutlery was littering the floor. All of them had been paired with another, forming upside down crosses all over the floor. You smelt something and your eyes widened in horror. The gas was on. You ran over to turn  it off and when you looked back around you saw that the teapot was cracked and in pieces in the centre of the wooden dining table. Clearly, the ghost wasn’t a fan of tea. Maybe it was a good job you didn’t offer it any.

You both cleared up, Giles staying quiet as you ranted through the tidying. You slammed the cutlery back in place. Crashing the cupboard doors closed. The teapot which you had really liked had to go straight into the bin.

When you finally finished, collapsing into the chairs in your living room. You felt exhausted. You weren’t sure if you had the energy to do this. You held onto the cross that Buffy had kindly gifted you and Giles earlier in the day.

A loud smash echoed through the house, making Giles jump and scatter your handwritten notes on the rituals you would have to perform all over the

You both rushed to pick them up before any poltergeist saw them and started to attack you before you could begin your plan. You then ran in to see what had happened, the noise having come from the kitchen. But this time, nothing was out of place. In fact, it was eerily clean. Spotless. 

You decided you did have the energy. You wanted this entity gone. You couldn’t even relax in your home for a second anymore. This was further evident when you heard a loud scoff and a thud.

You rushed in, expecting to see Giles wrestling with a ghost, but instead you saw him glaring at the book case in the living room.

“For the love of all that is- will you please cease with the ridiculous organisation of my bookshelves! I cannot find a bloody thing!” He shouted at mid-air. It had been the one thing through all of this that had gotten a reaction.

“Now, now is that language really necessary, sweetie?” You giggle as he turned to face you, his temper still frayed.

“I cannot stand to live beside this-this-!” He looked around, as if he could have seen if the poltergeist was listening in, but obviously wasn’t able to see anything, “The books, y/n! the books!” He started to get worked up until your hand slid lightly up his chest, rubbing soothingly.

“I know, that’s why we’re doing a- doing what we’re doing- on Halloween night” You hinted, not wanting the entity to know what you planned. You kissed him on the cheek and nestled into him, hoping he could feel your love and comfort coursing through him like blood. He appeared to calm as he held you to him, but he was still frowning around him and towards the bookcase.

It was finally time. It was almost midnight and you started to paint the pentagram on one of the small, circular hardwood tables as Giles shook his head and muttered under his breath. He had given his blessing to use one of the tables he had brought with him into your home from England, but it didn’t mean he was pleased about it. You both set up, places crystals on each point of the pentagram. You also lit candles and brushing up pronunciation of Latin phrases before you began. 

You nodded at each other, he closed the space between you to press a chaste kiss against your lips. For luck. Or courage. You both held hands and started reciting the words. Asking the spirit to reveal itself. Asking for its purpose. Things started to shake, books started to fly out of the shelves and litter the floor. Giles had to do everything in his power to stay focused. 

The crystals flew at you both, scattering on the floor at your feet. You knew what this meant. It wanted you. It wanted to inhabit one of you. Possess you.

Giles didn’t even pause. He couldn’t have anything jeopardising his home. His love. He never wanted to be apart from you and so he started shouted that the spirit was being cast out. Cast from this home and back to where it came from. Nothing was happening except you were angering the demon. It had started to shriek. Blood curdling, squawks of terror that made you shiver.

The table was starting to shake, threatening to be thrown across the room and you panicked. Giles started to chant louder and you saw something from the corner of your eye. Giles was trying to contain the spirit within the confines of the pentagram at least - trying to cease the destruction of your shared home. A home that had held so much love and warmth being destroyed into nothing made him mad. He had memories in every room, he had told you of his love for you on the sofa that was now almost ripped in two.

You had seen a doll. You had picked it up from a fair, or a flea market. It was hideous. You don’t even remember why you bought it, it was oversized and had a blank stare that meant you had hidden it in a cupboard so you didn’t have to look at it. That now had been flung open with the contents littering the floor.

You panicked, having to move from the circle to grab the doll before placing it hurriedly into the centre of the pentagram. Giles said the final syllable and it happened. Everything suddenly went quiet. The room dull and empty. Littered with you entire lives surrounding you.

You had made it so the spirit passed into there. The doll. You winced as the doll started to shake and a horrible light filled the room. It was so bright it felt as if it was behind your eyes, inside your skull. A terrible scream felt as if it were exploding your eardrums before a cold silence fell again.

It was instinct. It had been dangerous, but you both agreed there would have been no other way. You stared around you at the mess and decided you needed to worry about the doll first.

You took the doll straight to the Magic Box and locked it up until you knew what to do with it.

You held hands as you stepped back over the threshold of your shared home, peering around corners and holding your breath before entering rooms. But it was okay. It was all back to normal. 

Nothing was out of place. It was as if the activity had been something you had made up. Something of a shared dream. But you knew that wasn’t the case, and thought better than ever mentioning it out loud.

You turned and almost knocked Giles over in your haste to celebrate with the biggest hug. He quickly recovered and held you close. It was over, you both sighed as the first rays of the sunrise peaked from behind your blinds. Everything was going to be okay.

The details of this story were based on true events.

Y/n and Giles went on to save the world several times since the events of this fic. They assisted the Slayer at the final battle of Sunnydale and both survived.

The doll was sent to the care of Wolfram & Hart. The whereabouts of the doll is currently unknown.

[10moonymhrivertam]

Buffy/Witcher fic fragment

“Julian, duck!” The voice is a little shrill and definitely frantic. Jaskier’s still reeling from the portal, but something about the words has his hand shooting out to drag Geralt down with him. Something flies over their heads, and he looks up to see a headless body crumbling into dust. Which he hasn’t seen anything do in a very, very long time. He tenses at running footsteps, and he has a dagger in hand based sheerly on how frayed his nerves are. The girl standing over them is in jeans and a t-shirt, and he hasn’t seen the combination in decades.

“It is you! Everyone’s going to flip. It’s been years, I’m pretty sure they thought you were dead, especially since nobody really did magic yet when you went missing.” The girl has a hand out, and Jaskier stares at it, his brain buffering. Eventually, he realizes why. He’d gotten a spell to help him learn the most common language on the Continent when he’d arrived there, and now his brain is scrambling to parse English for the first time in twenty years.

“Who the hell are you?” He asks, the words wrapping strangely around his tongue. The girl frowns, her face scrunching into an expression that rings a bell deep in his memory. He’d had a friend that made a face like that...

“Right. The spell. You were gone.” Her hand still hangs in the air between them. “I’m Dawn Summers. I can take you to Giles, if you want.”

Jaskier eyes her for another moment before accepting the hand and then turning to help Geralt up. He doesn’t refuse the help, but there’s something tight in his face that says he doesn’t trust conversations he didn’t understand being had over his head.

“She knows someone that might know something,” he says to Geralt. Geralt grunts, his eyes darting from grave to grave. Jaskier suppresses a sigh and turns back to Dawn.

“Lead the way, Miss Summers.” Her face does something strange, but without a word, she turns on her heel and heads for the gate of the cemetery with unerring accuracy. Geralt’s stony silence felt significant, but every time Jaskier thought of something to say, all he could think was how Geralt was going to tear him apart for this pile of shit later when Jaskier wasn’t the only translator around. Another voice speaking English stopped his anxiety from ratcheting higher.

“Dawn, all I want to know is how I didn’t see you go.”

“I literally just waited until you stopped asking me questions while you were reading. But look, I survived!” Her voice is as bright as the sun. “Also, I found something!”

“You found something?” It wouldn’t have been easy to miss the skepticism in his voice even if Jaskier didn’t already know him. Dawn looks back, drawing Giles’s eye. Jaskier waves awkwardly, suddenly aware of just how much distance time has put between them.

“Julian?”

“Giles. It’s been...a while, for me.”

“It hardly looks like it.” Jaskier recognizes the look from seeing one like it on Geralt’s face more than he remembers it on Giles’s.

“I think that first portal did something to the way I age. Do you want to not-invite us back somewhere?” Which clears up a little bit of the look on Giles’s face, at least.

“I suppose there is an anniversary pizza party which can use a few more guests.”

“Oh, yeah!” Dawn grinned. “You haven’t met Tara yet! Oh, and, um - who are you? Sorry.” Jaskier looked back at Geralt - for a split second, he was waiting for Geralt to answer, then remembered.

“Geralt, this is Dawn and Giles. Giles, Dawn; Geralt. Language barrier.” Geralt had figured that much out already, so he didn’t feel the need to repeat himself.

“Sounded Polish.” Giles said a string of something which almost sounded like a greeting, but made Jaskier make a face. The easiest explanation was just that his accent was incomprehensible, but - then he remembered that they’d hopped from the thirteenth century to the twentieth.

“I’ll look into it,” Jaskier said in very firm English. Giles winced, and Jaskier felt bad for a moment. They quickly got on their way, and silence reigned. Jaskier hated the thick tension in the air, so with a mental fuck-it, he started speaking.

“Say something,” he pleaded with Geralt. “Anything. Three words or less?” The prompt usually worked when all else failed, but then - that had been before that awful dragon hunt half a year ago.

“Apologies are difficult.” The words came slowly, and Geralt looked pained. Jaskier didn’t bother hiding his surprise. Geralt eyed him for a moment before dropping his eyes to the sidewalk. “Harder now that I’m confused. And you’re the only one that knows what’s going on.”

Jaskier bit his lip, processing that. Geralt wanted to apologize, before they were portalled into Sunnydale. That was...a lot.

“This is...” Jaskier trailed off. “It’s where I’m from.” He looked away from Geralt. “A few years before we met, a portal took me from here and dropped me on the Continent. There was a mage that was so frustrated with my charades that she just slapped a translation spell on me. I’m just lucky the mechanics of it mean I can be a great bard. I can still tell the languages are separate, they still feel different, but I just - understand them.” He tapped his temple.

“This is where you’re from?” Geralt repeated. Jaskier looked over to see his eyes roaming from the sidewalk to the road to the power lines.

“It’s got monsters, too, but no witchers. Got something else, though. Oh, and it’s the twentieth century. Twenty-first, maybe, depending how long I was gone. It was the 90’s.”

“You know them?”

“The man. The girl said something about a spell, but...I don’t know what she means. Hold on. Miss Summers, what was that you said before about a spell?”

“Oh, yes, you were gone.” Hearing Giles say the same thing was a point in her favor. “It’s...rather complicated. There was memory alteration involved.”

“So I forgot you?” Jaskier couldn’t help but be a little upset by the idea.

“Wrong way around,” Dawn said, looking a bit uncomfortable. “We probably should wait until we get back, and then everyone else can tell you the way they remember things. It might be kind of neat to see how you tell things.”

“Alright, then.” Jaskier flashed them a disarming smile before turning his attention back to Geralt and shrugging. Geralt hummed and fell quiet again. Jaskier did the same despite himself, at least until the girl drifted back towards them.

[disappearance somewhere mid-s3; this is set in an ambiguous post-s5 everyone-is-happy-fuck-you]

“Is that a guitar?”

“A lute. Learning it was a little different. The tuning’s a bitch.” Giles shot him a look over his shoulder, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. “This is a special one. I got it from the king of the elves.”

Dawn’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, Bilbo.”

“Hey, no, they’re real on the Continent!” Jasker protested. He outlined what history he’d learned at Oxenfurt for her, and by the time he was coming to the end of his impromptu lecture, they were outside a house he recognized, just barely. Giles was first through the door, tossing out a greeting to get a chorus of voices in return. Dawn followed. Jaskier hesitated just one moment. His high school friends seemed to be in there. He hadn’t seen them in going on thirty years. Nonetheless, if he didn’t go, Giles wouldn’t trust him, and he didn’t have any chance of either settling in here or finding his way home. So he forged ahead, hanging onto Geralt’s sleeve. He crossed the threshold without a lick of trouble, and Geralt shadowed him silently.

“Who’s that?” That was Joyce’s voice, he thought.

“We found them in the cemetery!” Dawn said, far too cheerfully. “But we didn’t invite them in,” she added quickly. “You heard!”

“We heard.” That was another familiar one. A few moments later, one of his old friends was in the doorway. “...Julian?”

There was a chorus of ‘what’s, and suddenly it seemed like the entirety of whatever party they were having was in the doorway. Before he’d quite processed it all, Xander had drawn him into a hell of a hug.

“Lute!” He protested, squirming out of the hug. He took off his case and floundered for a place to set it. Geralt gently removed it from his hands and nodded back to the others. Jaskier flashed him a quick, warm smile, then turned his attention back to distributing hugs.

“It’s been a while,” he offered when they’d had their fill.

“How are you not dead?” Xander asked, earning an elbow in the side from Willow. He winced and pouted at her. 

“There was a portal. Which did do something strange to my aging, I’ll admit.”

“You barely look older than me,” Dawn observed, which didn’t help Jaskier as much as it ought to.

“Well, that’s flattering.”

“Why, how old are you?” Buffy asked.

“Coming up on forty-three.” Geralt tensed at the various ‘bullshit’s that rose up. Jaskier flashed him a smile to reassure him. “I’d offer to prove it, but all I have is Geralt’s word, and he never even argued with Yennefer about those crow’s feet jokes, so I don’t know if he noticed.”

“Oh, what are we all standing around the hall for?” Joyce tittered. “Come on, come sit. There’s pizza; soda; some wine.”

“Ooh, they’ve got wine, Geralt!” Geralt hummed. Still holding Jaskier’s lute with something like reverence, he followed Jaskier. At least until Jaskier stopped dead in the door, his eyes narrowing at the man with bleach-blond hair in the middle of what sounded like a pop culture argument with a woman who hadn’t come to greet him. 

“You have more to catch me up on, right now,” he said lowly. Spike looked over and his eyebrows shot up. 

“Pretty boy. Thought you were dead. Nice going on the still being here.” Spike made a vague gesture of congratulations and then turned back to his partner, but she was squinting at Jaskier like she knew him.

“There was a thing,” Dawn answered, dropping onto the couch. “An organizationy thing. Now he basically has a taser in his brain so he can’t eat people. He doesn’t have a soul but he’s still okay.”

“Watch yourself, little bit.” Spike waved a threatening finger at her, and Jaskier nearly leapt forward with his dagger, clear invitation be damned. A hand landed on his shoulder. He tensed and nearly whipped around. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled in his ear. “What’s going on?”

“When I left, that bastard was out to kill us.”

“And now?”

Jaskier huffed angrily through his nose. “He’s been invited to the party.”

“Treat him like he’s Valdo Marx, then.”

“Not fucking well helpful, Geralt, someday I’ll murder that little shit, I really will.”

“You’re Jaskier and Geralt of Rivia!” The accusation was sudden, giddy, and in the language Jaskier was used to hearing. He and Geralt turned as one to look at Spike’s conversation partner. Jaskier distantly noticed he was staring at her, too, though in a more ‘what the fuck’ way.

“And who would you be, madam?” The flirty, pleased smile touched easily on Jaskier’s face. Xander’s eyes narrowed. 

“Oh, when I went there, I usually went as Anyanka.”

“Anyanka...that’s familiar.”

“It had better be. I had at least three separate summons that stopped me and Hallie having days out because of you.”

“Summons?” Most of Jaskier’s excitement had dropped away.

“I was a demon zemsty.”

“Shit.” Jaskier could feel himself go pale. He could feel Geralt at his back, but couldn’t tell if he was angry or smug or indifferent. 

“But I’m not stupid. Witchers are almost as infamous as Slayers, and you’re the White Wolf’s bard.”

“Slayers?” Geralt asked. 

“It’s what I told you we have instead of Witchers. Except there’s only one, and she’s always a girl.”

“Seems like a lot of responsibility for one person,” he remarked. 

“Which is why Buffy has everyone.” Jaskier made a gesture encompassing the room. “And hasn’t died yet. No, wait, Kendra was Called. Well, she’s never died properly.”

[smallandsneezy]

given the temperature you’re running

giles finds willow fast asleep and sick in the library and takes her home with him. that's it, that's the tweet. (don’t mind me, just publishing all my old fics on here) (ao3)

It was nights like these that Giles was sure he’d never attain one of those work-life balances everyone’s always talking about. As he pushed open the doors to the library, he looked at his watch. 1:34AM. Perfect. The school day would be starting six hours from now, giving him plenty of time to get some extra reading on metaphysics done before the first bell rang.

Suddenly, a soft sniffle came from the corner. Giles leapt a foot in the air, clutching his collar in a panic. What in God’s name could it possibly be this time? He flipped the lights on before edging his way deeper into the library’s depths, wishing he’d brought an extra stake with him.

Oh.

Willow sat at the table, fast asleep among the books. Giles battled the opposing urges of frowning disapprovingly or smiling fondly. Of course it was Willow. He’d left her in pretty much the same position, although on his last time seeing her she’d been far more conscious than she was now. He drew closer.

Her hair was sticking to her face. He frowned, and moved to fix it, before getting distracted with how hot and sweaty her brow was. She groaned in her sleep, almost nuzzling into the hand that sat at her forehead checking her temperature.

Giles quickly ran through the day. Yes, Willow has been quieter than normal, but these kids were so full of hormones that he’d learned to take their mood swings with a grain of salt. He poured back over their afternoon of research, cursing himself when he noticed the quiet coughs and balled up tissues that danced in the periphery. Bloody hell, he was thick.

“Willow?” he said softly, pushing her hair back from her sweaty cheeks.

“Mmmmm.” Her eyes fluttered open, not coming into focus for just a moment too long for Giles to be comfortable.

“Giles? What… what are you doing here?” her voice was croaky, and she made a valiant attempt to clear it but only succeeded in making Giles violently wish he had brought some warm tea with him.

“I could ask you the same question. What have I told you about staying in the library after 11?” His hands had moved from her forehead to her throat, as he felt for… something? Medical knowledge was the one thing he’d never really gotten around to.

“Sorry. I got distracted. I’ll just…go now.” Willow made to stand up, but made it all of half a knee bend before her legs gave out and Giles had to make a mad dive to keep her from slamming her head on the table.

“I don’t think you’ll find that to be happening.” Giles’s mind was going a million miles an hour. What was he supposed to do? Drive her home? Her parents hadn’t noticed she was gone, clearly, and she needed someone to keep an eye on her.

“Willow, aren’t your parents missing you?”

“They’re out of town this week. Work.” She had closed her eyes again, her head lolling to rest on her shoulder.

Bollocks.

“Well… would it… would it be alright… I think you had best stay with me.” Giles decided the name of the game would have to be confidence. He may not have any idea what he’s doing, but Willow didn’t need to know that.

“I…” she broke off to cough, a tight wheezing noise that made his own chest clench. “I couldn’t, I don’t want to put you out.”

“Willow, I insist.” Giles fought down the urge to pick her up and carry her to his car. “Let’s go. Do you have everything?”

She looked listlessly at him, a vague bashful look on her face. “I should stop by my locker. I think I need my inhaler.”

Giles felt his stomach drop out of him.

“Inhaler?” Internally, he catalogued every asthma trigger that they’d been around in the last 24 hours alone- simply the books sitting around her head were a hazard.

“It’s no big deal.”

Giles was quite sure it was actually a very big deal, but decided to save that matter until Willow felt better, or at least didn’t look like she was about to faint.

“Well, we’ll get it and we’ll go to my house. If you’re comfortable with that.” he threw in quickly, wondering if he was being too demanding. Willow let out a sneeze that doubled her over, and Giles decided he wasn’t being nearly demanding enough.

“God bless you. Come along Willow.”

Their drive home was quiet, passing mostly in sneezes and Giles saying “bless you”, it each time coming out more strangled. When they hit a light Giles removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and placed it on Willow’s lap. He took it as a bad sign that she didn’t push back on this.

Normally Giles didn’t mind his car too terribly; it got the job done and him from place to place. Now, with Willow shaking like a leaf beside him, he prayed for a working heater. By the time they pulled into his driveway, Willow had nodded off yet again, her face resting against the window. The heat from her cheeks were fogging up the window around her, making it look like she had a halo. Giles turned the car off and sat for a moment, fighting the urge to let her sleep given the nighttime chill. Willow gave a pronounced shudder, and he decided enough was enough.

“Willow?” He reached out and gently took her shoulder. Willow’s eyes flew open, and she gasped, sending her into a coughing jag. Giles patted her back while he resisted the urge to hold the girl.

When the crackling noise emitting from her lungs had stopped, Willow looked over at him, her face red from exertion.

“Sorry.”

Giles decided that his first order of business after she was feeling better would be finding whoever had left her feeling the need to apologize for being ill.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Here, let’s get you to bed.” He let her walk by herself, albeit reluctantly, and led her into the large bedroom two doors to the right of the entrance way. Thank god he’d never gotten rid of the compulsive need to keep his room clean. He guided her to sit on the foot of the bed and turned to his dressers.

“Here are some clothes you can wear. You should keep warm.” He held out a pair of gray sweatpants and one of his older sweaters, carefully avoiding in his mind the alarm bells going off in his head. Was this unprofessional? Yes. But at the minute he didn’t really care.

Willow has accepted the clothing without question, looking up from the bed doing a thing with her eyes that made her look very young.

“I’m going to go make you some tea and see what medicine I have lying about. Go ahead and get changed and get into bed.”

“No!” The sudden sharpness in her tone startled him, and he immediately stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her.

“Is something wrong?”

“I can’t… I can’t sleep in your bed!” Her voice sounded like she’d swallowed a set of knives, something he couldn’t quite push to the back of his brain even as he considered this point.

“Well, I do understand it might be a tad strange, but given the temperature you’re running-“

“I really appreciate it! I do. I just… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable because of me.”

Giles very nearly laughed aloud.

“Willow, let me assure you that I would be far more uncomfortable letting you sleep on my couch given the current condition you’re in. And besides. My mother would have my head if she knew I made a guest sleep on a pull out sofa, especially,” he paused to allow Willow time to sneeze, taking a box of tissues from his nightstand and placing them in her lap, “if she was under the weather.”

Willow didn’t say anything more, simply began to shed her shoes and jacket, so Giles made his way to his kitchen, already dreading the lack of supplies he was going to find in his meager pantry. As the tea boiled, he put everything that could possibly be helpful out on the kitchen table. To her horrible hacking, which sounded just as painful a room over, he evaluated his loot.

A two year old pack of cough drops, generic. Enough Tylenol to kill a small animal. Honey, of which only a fourth of the bottle remained. He scoffed at himself. Given that his entire job was to protect the Slayer (and by extension, Willow and Xander), his medical supplies were only adequate if they were being used by a rock and roller treating a hangover the night after a concert. He resolved to go out first thing the next morning and pick up a battery of Dayquil and Nyquil, regardless of how expensive the miserable American healthcare system made it.

Tea with the remaining household honey in hand, he returned to his bedroom door. He stood quietly for a moment, listening. Nothing.

“Willow?” His voice sounded weedy and worried and he cursed himself for his incredible lack of ability to be cool in any situation.

“Yeah?” It was a croak, but it was confirmation of consciousness so Giles took it as a win.

“May I come in?”

“Sure thing.”

He slid inside to find Willow already tucked in amongst his covers. His sweater dwarfed her thin frame, and she has already rolled the sleeves up several times to let her hands have any chance at being useful. She was very pale, even more so than normal, with the exception of her cherry red nose and her pink cheeks. Giles felt so overwhelmed with affection for her that for a moment all he could do was stand there and watch her blow her nose.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Her voice was uncertain, almost as though she expected to be kicked out at any moment, and the ideas that brought to Giles’s head made him angry so he decided to push them away to be dealt with at a more convenient time.

“Willow, I swear this is more than alright. Are you feeling fevered still? I have some Tylenol in the kitchen, I just didn’t have the hands with the tea.” He gestured his head in the direction of the nightstand, which held said tea.

“Speaking of which, you should really drink that. It should help your throat, and maybe your chest if we’re lucky.”

Willow complied, wrapping her hands around the mug and taking a sip. She sighed contentedly.

“Giles, you always make the best tea.”

Giles felt himself go pink with pride and pleasure, and quickly went to go find more handkerchiefs to hide how happy he was about having his tea-brewing skills complimented.

He dug through his linen closet for a while, assessing the pros and cons of each type of blanket. Fluffy ones would keep her warm, but she could overheat. A sheet was really the best option, but she had been shivering so much and he resented the idea of withholding anything from her.

When he came back, Willow was asleep. Her chest made soft crackling noises as she breathed, but she looked better than she had an hour ago when he’d found her asleep at the desk. Giles felt the tension in his shoulders unwind, just a little bit. He crept softly up to the bed, laying the blanket he’d decided on over top of his covers. He stood for a moment, just watching her breathe. Only after she rolled over to curl up even tighter did her realize that he still had metaphysics reading to be done. The book was likely still in the library, never even touched. He looked at Willow again.

Worth it.

Giles placed a soft kiss to Willow’s temple and shut the door quietly.

[staarshines]

Broken: Chapter 2 || A.H.

Warnings: spoilers for s9e5 (but this is an og case i wrote up), getting tortured physically (stabbing, punching), blood, blood loss, bloodstains, mental torture, extreme feelings of guilt, being duct taped down in a chair, mentions of knives, mentions of other victims

WC: 2.8k

You try to tell the team you know where the unsub is, but Hotch blows you off. Angry, you go to the location where the unsub is holding a hostage to prove yourself, but you forget about the consequences of facing a murderer alone.

[A/N]: lmfao i’m sorry for all the cliffhangers guys also i’ve proofread this like 10 times there’s no mistake in the plot/description (*cough* wedding band *cough*)

The sound of radio chatter, police cars, and the rustling of trees in the wind is overwhelming, but Aaron Hotchner is in his own world. 

How could I just have let her go? No, I didn’t let her go, I told her to go. This is my fault. She’s going through who knows what right now because of me. If I had only listened…

“Hotch? Are you okay?” He snaps out of his guilty thoughts, looking at Emily.

“What did you find?” he asks, ignoring her question. They had been here hours; J.J., Reid, and Morgan had left to the P.D. to see if they could find any other clues. She understands that he’s dodging her question and doesn’t push.

“CSI found some fibers in the shaft, but we have to run them through forensics.”

“Call J.J. and tell her to tell forensics that an agent’s life depends on this sample. They need to rush it.”

“On it.” He swallows and looks around, disappointed when he checks his watch. 3:47. The sun would set in another couple of hours, and you would be subjected to continual torture through while they tried to figure out where you were. Nobody was sleeping tonight; not until they found you.

“Hotch, this isn’t your fault,” Rossi starts, approaching him. The younger man shakes his head. 

“I thought we agreed not to profile each other.” 

Rossi sighs. “We’ll find her. She’s a smart girl; she knows how to stay alive,” he tries to reassure. It doesn’t work, not in the slightest.

“Yeah, but for how long? I’m the reason she’s in his hands. If I had went with her, sent someone with her, hell, if I had even told her not to go, she’d be here, safe.” With me. 

A sharp jab to your left shoulder wakes you up, gasping for air. Your eyes fall to your left, where a knife is sticking out of your flesh. Your torso is bound to the back of a chair with duct tape, your feet taped to the chair legs and hands to the armrests. You try moving the chair with your body weight, but the chair is bolted. 

Eyesight blurring, you try to get a feel for where you are and notice that you’re in a room full of bloodstains and tables of torture equipment. This must have been where Giles held his other victims. Victims. The word makes your jaw clench. You wouldn’t be one of his. You couldn’t be.

“Good afternoon,” he says in a singsongy voice, entering the room. Your shoulders tense up at the sight of him. 

“Where am I?” You ask, not returning his greeting. He picks up a knife and inspects it, the silence killing you. “Twenty-Six Oh-One Noble Drive?” He freezes for a split second, and you know you have him. That was the second address on that piece of paper. The team had him now. But where had you dropped it? Was it still on you? Did Reid see it back at the P.D.? You furrow your brows as you try to remember, and then it comes to you. 

You left it in the SUV. 

Now, the question was who had driven the car back. Anyone from your team would notice it and find the second address, but the police would just bag it as evidence. Connor turns around, a smug smile on his face. You can tell from his rigid posture and clenched jaw that he’s not relaxed, although he’s trying to control his body language to look like it. 

“Mind games now? Is that what they teach you at the F.B.I.?” You roll your eyes, ignoring the knife in his hand. 

“It’s called behavioral analysis, genius.” He smiles and approaches you, caressing your cheek with the cold metal. 

You don’t even flinch.

“And behavioral analysis is supposed to catch killers while saving the agents?” He lets out a low chuckle. “That didn’t seem to work for you. Or Agent Hotchner, for that matter.” You bite your tongue. Hotch? Was he okay? What did this idiot mean?

“Hotch? Please, he stares into the face of death every day and wins.” He shakes his head.

“Well, today was an exception.” Today. That means you haven’t been out for long. What time was it?

“An exception?” you question, starting to worry.

“He’s dead.” You laugh for the first time since the team had taken this case.

“Aaron Hotchner? Dead? You really didn’t do your homework, did you?” you ask him, trying to control your laughter.

“If Aaron isn’t dead, then whose is this?” He holds up a silver wedding band and your bottom lip parts ever so slightly, breathing quickening. That looked exactly like Aaron’s. It had to be his; he would still wear it after Haley’s death, idly fiddling around with it when he was in deep thought. He never thought anyone noticed, but you did. 

“How the hell did you get your hands on that?”

“And what about this?” Ignoring your question, he walks behind you and comes back with a laptop. He opens it and clicks the play button on a video of J.J.

“Ma’am, ma’am! How invested would you say the team is in this case? Six bodies have already been discovered and the killer hasn’t been caught. Rumor is he has one of your agents,” one of the reporters calls out. She freezes for the slightest second, and you can see the fire in her eyes. 

“We had one of our own taken from us today, so I’d say we’re very invested,” she nearly yells in disbelief, eyebrows scrunched. “No further questions.” Taken from us? Fuck, did she mean you or Hotch?

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish?” You ask him, trying to sway the subject away from Hotch. The team thought the entire thing was physical torture. This is something else. He wouldn’t waste precious time telling you Hotch was dead.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be asking questions, sweetheart.”

“And I don’t think you’re in the position to be holding me hostage as the F.B.I. and Tallahassee’s entire police department look for me,” you mock. He just shakes his head, rolling up his sleeves. 

“Aaron Hotchner is dead, and it’s all your fault.” You raise an eyebrow, but your gut is twisting. Hang on, you don’t even know if he’s dead or not. But you saw the ring and watched the video. He’s gone, because of you. 

No, he’s not. 

You start to overthink, resisting the urge to squeeze your eyes shut.

“I want proof, Giles,” you snap. “I want cold, hard evidence that he’s not alive.” He shrugs. “If you say so yourself.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials a number. You frown, trying to figure out what he was doing.

“Tallahassee’s anonymous tip hotline.” A woman answers. Well, she had no idea what she was in for.

“I’d like to speak with Jennifer Jareau, the B.A.U.’s communications liaison.” She hesitates.

“May I ask who this is?” 

“Jennifer Jareau, or this agent dies,” he answers, looking at you. You hear her call J.J. over and she’s there in seconds. You can only imagine the team’s condition right now. 

J.J. would be trying to calm everyone down. Morgan would be on the verge of snapping. Reid would’ve lost himself in the evidence. Emily would be panicking on the inside. Rossi would be trying to push the possible outcomes out of his head focusing on the profile, nothing else. Hotch— You swallow thickly.

“Hello? Who is this?” He puts the phone to your mouth. 

“J.J.?” you whisper.

“Oh my God. Where the hell are you?” You ignore her question.

“Where’s Hotch?” you ask in a panic.

“Um, he— he’s not here right now. Why?” Her hesitation is enough for you. 

“He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“What do you mean? I need you to tell me where you are. Hotch is—” He ends the call, slipping the phone back in his pocket.

“Is that enough for you?” You don’t answer, not being able to comprehend that he was actually gone. He leans into your ear and whispers, “You loved him, and now he’s dead. Not to mention it’s all your fault.” He withdraws, leaving the room. A single tear falls down your cheek. 

“I’m sorry, Aaron.”

Hotch nearly slams open the door to the conference room, Prentiss and Rossi on his heels.

“We came as fast as we could. What did you find?” 

“Giles called us,” Morgan starts.

“And we weren’t here,” Rossi mutters, clenching his jaw. “Play the tape.” J.J. side-eyes Spencer and Morgan. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Emily’s voice rises a pitch.

“The tape is… confusing at first.”

“Play it.” J.J. sighs, pressing the play button. Your dry, panicked voice comes through the speakers. Hotch inhales and closes his eyes, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t have to listen to you be tortured. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding until the tape was over.

“Wait, does she think Hotch is dead?” Prentiss asks, not understanding. Morgan shakes his head. Hotch bites his lip and opens his eyes.

“J.J. didn’t say anything that pointed to that.” 

“But Emily is right,” Reid interjects.

“What’s this supposed to mean, then?” Emily inquires, resting her weight on the wall.

“The unsub is telling us something we didn’t know about him before; that he mentally tortures his victims before he does so physically. In her case, it’s getting her to think that, well, you’re dead,” Reid answers, looking at Hotch. Hotch purses his lips.

“She mistook your confusion for hesitation,” Hotch concludes, looking at J.J. She frowns.

“But she’s a profiler; she doesn’t slip up like that. Plus, she knows us, which makes differentiating our emotions a lot easier.”

“We don’t know what her physical or mental state is,” Rossi adds. “A couple hits to the head and she wouldn’t be able to think or profile like she normally does.”

“J.J., this isn’t your fault,” Emily tells her. She nods with a forced smile but doesn’t believe it.

“But why would that hurt her any more than it would hurt her to think anyone else on the team was dead? Was it just easier to fabricate mine?” The tension in the room returns, and Hotch looks around. “What?” The truth was, he knew why. She had a liking for him, but he wanted to make sure it wasn’t hopeful thinking getting to him.

“Hotch, she…” J.J. doesn’t know how to continue.

“She has the hots for you,” Morgan finishes. 

“She’s… She’s liked you for a while. The so called flirting didn’t go unnoticed, especially in a room full of profilers,” Emily’s voice strains.

“It wasn’t really flirting, it was more making sure you were alright. That’s her love language. It’s funny because our love language is what we were deprived of in our childhood. She’d do your paperwork when you had to take care of Jack, make sure you were eating, sleeping, checked in on you frequently after Haley, drove you back and forth after Foyet… Hotch, it’s all there,” Reid explains gently. Hotch sighs unsure of what to do for once.

“We need to go back over the evidence. There has to be some indication of where Giles went, even if he doesn’t have any paper trail. Get Garcia to go over everything again.” The team nods solemnly and files out, leaving Hotch and Rossi. Rossi puts his hand on the Hotch’s shoulder.

“Your ‘flirting’ didn’t go unnoticed either.”

Another blow to the chest leaves you gasping for air, your vision blurring. The three stab wounds in your thighs aren’t assisting your efforts to keep yourself awake.

“Is that all you’ve got?” You ask him, tiredly cocking your head to the side. You had vowed to yourself that you wouldn’t give him the fear that he needed to get off and dispose of you.

“Oh no darling, I’m just getting started.” Another punch to the face and you hear your jaw pop out of place before you feel it do so, inhaling shakily. Pain blooms from various different points on your body. It had to have been hours. Where the hell was the team?

“My team—” One more to the stomach and you groan, nearly blacking out. 

“You and your pretty little team. They’ve already lost their supervisor. How well do you think they’re faring right now?” You take in raggedy breaths, trying to keep your eyes open.

“They won’t leave you standing,” you spit out. He grins and yanks your hair back, your vision going black. The last thing you hear is:

“They need to find me first.”

Sixteen hours. That’s how long you had been gone. How long you’d been subjected to endless torture. 

How long everyone on the team had tried to keep the thoughts of you being tortured out of their heads. 

How long Hotch had tried to hold his emotions in. But he was barely doing so, knowing that it was a game of chance about whether or not he would ever get to tell you that he loved you.

“This isn’t working,” Morgan groans, throwing a file on the table. The entire P.D. was deserted except for the B.A.U. “It’s three A.M., and where are we? Nowhere. We have nothing.” He gets up from the table, putting his hands on his head in defeat. Everyone was exhausted, but nobody was willing to go to the hotel and sleep. The team wouldn’t be able to survive without your bubbly laughter, cocky remarks, and sharp mind; everyone knew that. 

“Have we been over everything?” Garcia asks through the computer in a sleepy voice.

“Everything. Every shred of evidence that we have from this case,” J.J. sighs in disappointment, holding her head in her hands. Hotch absentmindedly fiddles with his wedding band.

“You guys need to sleep. Wake up fresh tomorrow, well, today, and work the case,” Garcia starts, but Emily cuts her off.

“We all know nobody’s sleeping until we find her.” The team nods and sighs in agreement. J.J. furrows her brows, eyes falling on Reid.

“He’s been standing still there for a full ten minutes just staring at the board. Is he okay?”

“More importantly, is his CPU dead?” Prentiss asks, smirking.

“Let the genius work his brain. He’ll come up with something sooner or later,” Derek murmurs, still pissed off at the lack of leads.

“I got it!” Spencer yells, startling the entire team. Hotch snaps out of it and Rossi nearly jumps out of his seat.

“That timing was impeccable, kid,” Rossi admits, massaging his temples. The entire team shares a laugh, barring Hotch and Reid, while Reid looks around, confused. Shaking his head and realizing he missed whatever it was they were laughing about, he begins to unravel his genius.

“Hotch, where’s that piece of paper she was talking about in the morning?” Hotch shakes his head, trying to remember.

“Um, I don’t know, I think she took it with her.” Reid nearly runs from the glass whiteboard to the evidence boxes, rummaging around in them. Morgan and Prentiss join him, knowing exactly what he was looking for. 

“Reid, what are you getting at?” Derek asks, looking through the boxes for that piece of paper. 

“I didn’t get to read it, but there was another address on the back of the paper.” The entire team goes silent for a moment, then “organized chaos”, as you had once memorably described the team’s dynamic as, ensues.

“Rossi, you’re coming with me. Reid and J.J., and Morgan and Prentiss. Have Garcia send the addresses to the GPSes. We’re going in soft without SWAT or the P.D. Comms on, and there’s no need to use sirens. Vests are in the trunks. Let’s go!” Hotch yells at the team, grabbing a set of keys and sprinting out the door, Rossi in pursuit.

“I found the paper! Garcia, Twenty-Six Oh-One Noble Drive!” Prentiss shouts, pulling it out of the plastic bag and reading off of it. 

“Done, done, and done. That’s a five minute drive from here.”

“Oh, I love you so much babygirl.” Garcia smirks at Morgan’s remark.

“Go save our girl.” The transmission ends, and everyone is out of the P.D. in less than thirty seconds. Hotch’s heart is beating so hard that it’s the only thing he can hear. 

Were they just in time, or were they too late?

Masterlist

All taglists are open! Send me an ask or a message :)

Permanent: @becausewhyknotme​, @criminal-cookies​, @theladyoffangorn​, @officialtonystarkprotectionsquad​, @justmebeingtheweirdmeiam​, @agentpeggybarnes​ 

“Broken”: @lil-bita-everything​, @dontshootmespence​

[winchesterbrotherstan]

SPN- The Usual Suspects (2.07)

Pairing: Olive Winchester (OC)

Summary: A case goes side-ways, Dean is left cornered, and it’s up to Sam and Olive to get him out of the mess. Olive falls fatally ill, and Sam must team up with a law enforcement officer.

Warnings: lots of coughing, blood, mentions of drug use, gun threats, uh ghosts and like... the usual??

Word Count: 8547

Baltimore, Maryland

Outside a motel room, a SWAT team gears up. It’s dark, and the few people outside have scattered. Someone stays closeby, but only their face is hidden. They’ve got their hood pulled up, one hand is in their pocket, and their other arm is in a makeshift sling. They’ve got a dog on a leash, and they do their best to stay in the shadows.

In a police station across the city, a sheriff enters an interrogation room and sits down.

“Well, first I thought you were just stepping up your game. Credit card fraud, breaking and entering, and this one…” he looks over the file with a sigh, “puzzled me. Grave desecration. But still, these are a long way from murder. Then we get a fax from St. Louis. Where you’re suspected of torturing and murdering a young woman. However, no one could prove anything, of course, because you died there. But I gotta tell you something. You look pretty healthy to me.”

The detective moves, sits on the table. “Now we know. Karen Giles isn’t the first person you’ve killed. But I guarantee you she’s the last.”

At the motel, the SWAT team stands outside a second floor room, ready. They knock the door down with a battering ram, and the person inside immediately puts their hands up. One of the detectives steps forward, keeping her gun on the person.

“Going somewhere, Sam?” She asks.

There’s a rifle ready to shoot the middle Winchester through the heart, and he swallows hard, eyes set in disgust as he looks at the woman.

In the police station, the detective shoots the prisoner a dirty look before getting up and walking out. The prisoner is Dean.

The person standing in the motel parking lot pulls their hood back, watching as Sam is dragged from the room. It’s Olive. She pulls the hood back up, turns on her heel, and walks off.

                                                               ***

The detective that cornered Sam enters his interrogation room. She places a coffee cup on the table, and Sam glances over, but continues to pace by the window.

“Thought you might be thirsty.”

“Okay, so you’re the good cop.” Sam assesses. “Where’s the bad cop?”

“Oh, he’s with your brother.”

“Okay. And you’re holding us why?”

“Well he’s being held on suspicion of murder.” The woman adjusts her sleeves and a look of shock washes over Sam’s face. “And you? Well, we’ll see.”

“Murder?” Sam repeats, leaning onto the table.

“You sound genuinely surprised. Or are you that good of an actor?” The woman smiles.

“Who is he supposed to have murdered?” Sam squints.

“We’ll get around to that.”

“Well, you can’t just hold us here without formal charges!” Sam is growing more and more upset.

“Well, actually, we can. For forty eight hours, but you, being a pre-law student, would know that. You see, I know all about you, Sam.” She picks up a file folder and opens it. “You’re twenty three years old. No job, no home address. Your mother died when you were a baby, your father’s whereabouts are unknown. And then there’s the case of your brother, Dean. Whose demise was, well, just a bit exaggerated. Feel free to jump in whenever you like.”

Sam leans against the wall and folds his arms over his chest.

“Shy?” She teases. “No problem. I’ll keep going. Your family moved around a lot when you were a kid. Despite that, you were a straight-A student. Got into Stanford with a full ride.”

Sam says nothing. They haven’t mentioned Olive, and he’s not sure whether he should be relieved or worried. His mind spins. There’s got to be a record of her somewhere out there. Sure, she wasn’t born in a hospital, and she almost never went to the doctor, and she went to school under fake names, but there’s gotta be something.

The woman closes the file. “Then about a year ago, there was a fire in your apartment. One fatality. Jessica Moore, your girlfriend. After she died, you fell off the grid. Left behind everything.”

Sam says nothing, but he looks up through his eyelashes. “I needed some time off. To deal. So I’m taking a road trip with my brother.”

“And your little sister.”

Sam’s blood runs cold.

“Don’t think we forgot about little old Olive.” She smiles. “Such a strange name.”

His nose twitches in anger. He picked that name. She smiles again, wider this time.

“Where is she? We didn’t find her in the motel room. The bathroom window was open, but she couldn’t have jumped. Two stories is too high, don’t you agree?”

Sam says nothing.

“Where is she, Sam?”

He leans further into the wall.

“How’s that road trip going for you guys?”

“Great.” Sam shrugs softly, then takes the chance to derail her. “I mean…” A smile grows on his face. “We saw the second largest ball of twine in the continental US. It was awesome.” He pulls up a chair and straddles it.

“We ran Dean’s fingerprints through AFIS.” The detective comes to the end of the table.

“Okay.”

“Got over a dozen possible hits.”

“Possible hits.” Sam repeats. “Which makes them worthless.”

“But it makes you wonder. What are we gonna find when we run your prints?”

“Well.” Sam smiles and pounds his fist on the table, every movement dripping with sarcasm. “You be sure to let me know.” He points at the cup. “May I?”

She nods. “Please.”

“Great.” He takes the cup, smells it, and then takes a sip.

She leans over him, eyes intent.

“Sam. You seem like a good kid. It’s not your fault Dean’s your brother. We can’t pick our family. Right now, detectives in St. Louis are exhuming a corpse. They’re trying to figure out how your brother faked his own death.”

There’s a scream from outside, and against all common sense, on instinct, Sam’s head snaps up. It’s Olive’s scream.

“Get off of me!” She screams, squirming.

She’s dropped Jinx off at a safe place. The Richmonds will pick her up and take care of her until this is over. Olive is being dragged through the police station, kicking and screaming. She’s managed to nail two men in the crotch, and has sent a mug full of pens to the floor.

Back in the interrogation room, Sam’s face is pale. The detective turns back to him with a smile.

“Is that baby sister Olive?”

He glares.

“She’s sixteen, isn’t she? Has been for a little less than a month now. She can be tried as an adult. Look, Dean’s a bad guy. His life is over. Yours doesn’t have to be, and neither does Olive’s.”

Sam turns with a glare. “You want us to turn against our own brother?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “We’ve already caught him cold. Red-handed at the Karen Giles murder scene. We just need you to fill in some missing pieces.”

“Why would I do that?” Olive spits from her seat in a third interrogation room.

They’ve cuffed her down, and she knows she could break them, but that would lead to another issue they couldn’t solve without making an even bigger mess.

“Because we can talk to the DA for you, kid.” The detective who had talked to Dean sits across from her. “Dean’s gone. You don’t have to be.”

She grits her teeth, composes herself, and then spits in his face.

“Go to hell.”

The man wipes the spit from his face angrily and stands.

“Fine. Just remember, I tried to help you.”

Sam begins to talk, voice quiet. “My dad and Tony Giles were old friends. They were in the service together. We’ve known him since we were kids, you know? So we came as soon as we heard about his death.”

Cafe, Before

“Here.” Sam placed three coffee cups down and slid into his chair.

Dean handed him the newspaper he had been reading. “Anthony Giles.”

“Who’s Anthony Giles?” Sam squinted.

“Baltimore lawyer. Working late in his office, check it out.” Olive pointed at the article she and Dean found.

Sam scanned over it, mumbling out loud. “Throat slit, room was clean. Huh. No DNA, no prints.”

“Keep reading.” Olive grinned. “It gets better.”

“Security cameras failed to capture footage of the assailant.” He scoffed.

“So we’re thinking either somebody messed with the tapes-”

“Or we’ve got an invisible killer on our hands.”

“My favorite kind.” Dean smiles. “What do you think, Scully? You wanna check it out?”

Sam scoffed, and Olive snorted.

“I’m not Scully, you’re Scully.”

“No, I’m Mulder.” Dean fought back. “You’re a red-headed woman.”

“Hey!” Olive whined. “Can I be Scully? I’m a girl.”

Dean and Sam shared a look, and each broke out into a smile. Dean patted her head and Sam gave her hand a squeeze.

“You’re too little to be either, bug.”

She rolled her eyes with a huff. “Fine, fine. Let’s go check this out.”

Second Interrogation Room, Present Day

“Would’ve been kind of hard for Dean to kill Tony, considering we weren’t in town at the time.” Sam is still straddling the chair, hands in his lap.

“So tell me what happened next.”

“Okay, uh, that when we went to see Karen.” Sam sighs. “She was barely holding it together. We just wanted to be there for her. You know?”

Giles House, Before

Karen sat on the couch, on the verge of tears. She flipped through the forms the siblings had handed her and sighed shakily.

“Insurance. I totally forgot about the insurance.”

“We’ve very sorry to bother you right now, but the company is required to conduct its own investigation. You understand.” Sam smiled sympathetically.

“Sure.” Karen nodded, pushing her glasses back up.

“Okay. Um, if you could just tell us anything you remember about the night your husband died.”

“Um… Tony and I were just supposed to have dinner. He called and said he was having computer troubles, and that… that he had to work late.” She sniffled again. “That was it.”

“Do you have any idea who could’ve done this to him?” Olive’s voice was sympathetic.

“No.” Karen shook her head. “No, it’s like I told the police, I… I have no idea.”

“Did Tony mention anything, you know, unusual to you? In the days before his death?” Dean asked.

“Unusual…” Karen trailed off.

“Yeah, like strange.”

“Strange?” She repeated.

“You know, weird. Weird noises, uh, visions, anything like that?”

Sam cleared his throat and glared at Dean, and Olive sent him a similar look.

Could you be any less subtle?

Karen turned to glance at Sam and Olive, who immediately switched back to the looks of concern and pity. She looked down again, and the two younger siblings shot him a look again.

“He had a nightmare the day before he died.” Karen shrugged.

“What kind of nightmare?”

“Uh, he said that he woke up in the middle of the night and there was a woman standing at the foot of the bed. He blinked and she was gone, I mean… it was just a nightmare.”

“Did he say what she looked like?”

“What the hell difference does it make what she looked like?” Karen spat.

Dean squirmed, and Olive leaned forward, voice gentle.

“Our company is just very thorough. I understand this is an upsetting process, but we just need to ask a few more questions, and we’ll be on our way.”

Karen nodded. “Okay. I’m sorry. He said she was pale, and that she… she had dark red eyes.”

The siblings nodded as they each made a note.

Second Interrogation Room, Present Day

“So I gave Karen a hug, told her to call me if she needed anything, and that was it… end of story.” Sam shrugs.

“Sam, I am trying to help you here.” The detective hisses. “But you have got to be honest with me. Now, we have an eyewitness. Someone who saw two men and a young woman fitting you and your siblings’s descriptions breaking into Gile’s office.”

“Okay.” Sam sighs. “Look, Karen called us later, said that there was some stuff that she wanted from Tony’s office. But the police weren’t letting her in. Like, a picture of the two of them in Paris, and some other stuff. Look, it was wrong to enter a crime scene, but she gave us the key!” Sam puts his hands up in protest.

Giles’ Office, Before

Dean picked the lock, and he ducked in first. Olive followed, and Sam went last, shutting the door behind themselves. Each ducked under the police tape with ease. Sam shone his flashlight on a pool of blood on the floor.

“Hey. Giles’ body was found right about here.”

He rummaged through his jacket pockets and pulled out the newspaper from earlier. “Throat slit so deep part of his spinal cord was visible.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “What do you guys think? Vengeful spirit? Underlining vengeful?” He emphasized.

“Yeah, maybe. I mean, he did see that woman at the foot of his bed.”

Dean picked a paper off the desk. “Look at this.”

Olive took the paper and held it where Sam could see it too. danashulps was written all over it, in small print.

“Dana Shulps. Name?” Sam suggested.

Dean picked another paper off the desk. “I dunno, but it’s all over the place.” A grin broke out on his face. “Well, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

Sam shone his flashlight over the glass table and paused. Olive looked up at him.

“What is it, Sams?”

“Do me a favor, breathe onto the table.”

She eyed him, but did as he asked, pulling away when she realized that danashulps was written all over it.

“What the fuck?”

“Well, I’d say we’ve officially crossed over into weird.

“Maybe Giles knew her.” Dean suggested.

“Or!” Olive perked up. “Maybe it’s the name of our pale, red-eyed mystery girl.”

“Alright, let’s just see what we can find.”

                                                              ***

Dean let out a loud groan, and Olive sighed from her spot on the couch. Sam was at the desktop computer, typing away.

“There’s not a single mention of a Dana Shulps anywhere. There’s not a D. Shulps. Or any other kind of fucking Shulps.” Dean complained.

“Great.” Olive huffed. “I can’t find anything either. Sams, what about you?”

“Nothing. No Dana Shulps has ever lived or died in Baltimore in the last fifty years at least.”

“So what now?”

“Well, I think I’m pretty close to cracking Giles’ password. Maybe there’s something in his personal files, you know?”

“By close, you mean?”

Sam shrugged. “Thirty minutes, maybe?”

Dean glanced down at his watch and sighed. “Awesome, so I guess I just get to uh… hang out.” He sighed, then grumbled something under his breath.

Olive got up from the couch and sat in the other red chair, watching as Sam worked. Dean began to click his tongue, and both younger siblings turned with similar looks of annoyance.

He paused, and once they both looked away, he started to make fart noises with his mouth. Olive stifled a giggle, and Sam sighed.

“Dude, seriously!”

“Alright, I’m gonna go talk to Karen again, see if she knows anything about this Dana Shulps, huh?”

“Great.” Sam huffed.

“Be careful.” Olive smiled at Dean as he stood.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her forehead, then shone his flashlight at Sam. “Keep going, Sparky.”

Third Interrogation Room, Present Day

“Then Dean went back to Karen’s place to check up on her. I mean, you know, she had obviously been upset earlier.” Olive huffs.

“So why didn’t you and Sam go with him?” The one from before, who Olive’s figured out is named Sheridan, asks.

Olive half shrugs. “I had to take care of some lady things. Sam came with me to the motel.” She pauses. “How did you know he was there, by the way?”

“We found the motel matchbook on Dean when he arrested him. Now-”

“How’d you know where to find me?” She questions.

“Let’s quit dicking around. Now you two were with Dean the whole time you were in Baltimore. Why separate now? Because your brother left you. To go kill Karen.”

“He didn’t kill anyone!” Olive shouts.

The anxiety is ramping, and it’s making her fractured arm hurt.

“I heard the 911 call!” Sheridan slams his fist on the table. “Karen was terrified! She said someone was in the house!”

Giles House, Before

Karen was on the couch in her pajamas, crying. The TV was on, but low. She wasn’t watching. She blew her nose, and heard something as she did. She took her glasses off to rub her eyes before quickly putting them back on. She noticed a figure in the mirror across the room.

She let out a frightened yelp and stood, turning the lights on. There was nobody there, but she turned into the bedroom and shut the door. She dialed 911 and put the phone to her ear.

“Hello, emergency services.”

“Hello? I think I saw someone in my house.”

“What’s your address?”

“It’s 421 Clinton Avenue. Please, can you-”

A click, and the call was disconnected.

“Hello?”

The printer on her desk flicked on and began to rapid-print sheets with the same thing from Tony’s office.

danashulpsdanashulpsdanashulpsdanashulps

Karen fumbled around for a flashlight, and finally turned. She turned to be face-to-face with the ghost. She screamed.

                                                              ***

Giles House, Before

Dean knocked on the door. “Karen, you in there?”

He got no answer. He looked around before bending to pick the lock. He opened the door and tried the light in the entryway. It didn’t work. He shut the door behind himself and ventured further into the house. He went up the stairs and turned into the bedroom. He pushed the door open to see Karen lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He turned and noticed the printer pages.

“Seriously, what the hell?” He grumbled.

He knelt by Karen’s body, noticing bruises on her wrists. He slowly picked up one of her hands.

“Freeze.”

Dean cursed to himself. Behind him, two cops had their guns trained on his head.

“Stay on your knees. Hands where I can see them. Now!”

He complied.

First Interrogation Room, Present Day

Sheridan sits in an observation room, where he can see Dean, who is handcuffed to a table. The detective that had been with Sam, Ballard, enters.

“You getting anywhere with him?”

“No. Just a lot of wise-ass remarks.” He grumbles.

“What about the girl?”

Sheridan rolls his eyes. “Nothing. Her story matches his down to the last detail. You?”

“Same with Sam’s.”

“Hmm. Yeah, well, these guys are good. I’ll give them that.” Sheridan crosses his arms over his chest.

Ballard sighs. “If we don’t get Sam or Olive to flip, we have nothing but a lot of circumstantial evidence.”

“Hey. We’ve got Dean at the crime scene with blood on his hands. And we caught Olive trying to steal a car. Juries have convicted for less.”

“Yeah, but…” Ballard sighs. “I mean, where’s the murder weapon? What’s the motive? You talk about reasonable doubt.”

“Diana.” Sheridan leans in and touches her face. “Do you have reasonable doubt? We keep leaning on these three, one of them will tumble. And don’t forget about St. Louis. I’m telling you. This Dean guy is our guy.”

Ballard sighs. “I know Tony Giles was a friend of yours.”

“Yeah.” Sheridan nods. “He was, he was a good friend.”

“Look, and I know you just want to clean this mess up quick, but some on. Tony knew a lot of criminal types, I mean… maybe we’re just-”

“Criminal types?” Sheridan cuts her off with a snarl. “He was a defense lawyer, for fuck’s sake. Of course he knew criminal types.”

“Alright.” Ballard sighs. “Let’s get back at them.”

“No, you know what? Let em stew in their juices for a bit.” Sheridan glances around to make sure nobody is nearby. “Come here.”

He pulls her into a kiss.

In the interrogation room, Dean huffs.

“Dana Shulps, Dana Shulps, Dana Shulps. Dana- Dana Shulps.” He mumbles to himself, eyes closed.

He’s stiff cuffed to the table, and he’s got his hands laced together as he thinks.

Sam, hands free, pulls a pad of paper and a pen to himself. He writes Dana Shulps in print, frowning as he thinks.

Olive is still cuffed to the table in her interrogation room. Her wrists are beginning to hurt, and her leg is bouncing up and down, shaking the entire table. She mutters curses as she looks around, in thought.

“It’s not a name, it’s not a name, it’s not a name.” She squeezes her eyes shut.

Sam huffed as he got to work. “Anagram, maybe?”

Dean continues to mumble to himself, looking up when there’s a knock on the door.

“Mr. Winchester?” A middle aged man pokes his head in.

“Yeah.” Dean grumbles.

“Hi, I’m Jeffrey Kraus.” The man walks in. “I’m with the public defender’s office. I’m your lawyer.”

Dean deadpans. “Oh. Thank god. I’m saved.”

Kraus sits, and Dean leans forward. “Hey, could I uh, steal a pen from you? Maybe some paper?”

“Sure.” Kraus hands the items over to Dean, who goes to town. “Uh, well, the police haven’t found a weapon yet. So that’s good. But uh, they got your prints. And well,” the man chuckles, “literally blood on your hands. And with your police record, uh…” he trails off when he notices that Dean isn’t paying attention.

“Mr. Winchester?”

Nothing.

“What are you doing?”

“I think it’s an anagram.” Dean grunts.

“A what?”

“Same letters, different words.” Dean explains as he continues to scribble.

The paper now reads:

dna shulps

dan shulpas

land pushas

supash land

push landas

plush danas

He pushes it over to Kraus. “Uh, do me a favor? See if you recognize any of these words. You know, local names, places, anything like that?”

“Do you understand how serious these charges are?”

“I’m handcuffed to a table.” Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I get it. Humor me. Take a quick look.”

Kraus sighs and pulls the pad of paper over to him. “Well, I don’t know about s-u-p, but Ashland is a street name. Not far from here.”

“A street.” Dean repeats.

He takes the pad back, tears the paper off, and begins to scribble again.

“Let’s start with where you were the night Anthony Giles died.”

“Can you get in to see my brother and sister?” Dean looks up quickly.

“Mr. Winchester, you could be facing the death penalty here.”

“Hey, thanks for the law review, Matlock. But, if you wanna help me.” Dean holds up the two scraps of paper he’s written on. “I need you to see my brother and sister.”

Third Interrogation Room, Present Day

Olive unfurls the note and snorts.

Lil,

Ashland Street

Call richies if you’re alone

-Phil

“I hope that means something. He was adamant I get that to you.” Kraus sits across from her.

Olive rolls her neck. “Yeah, thanks. How far exactly is Ashland Street from here?” She crumbles up the note and looks up, expectantly.

“Uh, maybe a ten minute drive. Miss Winchester, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to-”

“No.” Olive shakes her head. “I don’t need a lawyer to talk me through this. They think Dean’s a killer, they found me stealing a car, and they’re gonna pin Sam and I as accessories. They’re gonna bring up everything we’ve ever done, gonna bring up the fact that our dad is gone, gonna say Dean had blood on his hands, and that’s gonna be the end of it.”

Kraus sighs. “You’re sixteen-”

“They’re gonna try me as an adult, I know.” She nods again. “Look, Matlock, why don’t you go talk to Sam? He’s prelaw, full ride to Stanford. I’m sure he can help you work out a strategy for us.” She smiles a sickly sweet smile, but it’s full of anger and poison.

Krau sighs a third time before getting up and exiting the room.

Second Interrogation Room, Present Day

Sam reads over the note Dean sent.

Hilts-

It’s a street

Ashland

-McQueen

Kraus sighs. “I hope that’s meaningful. But I’d like to discuss your case now.”

Sam gestures to the chair in front of him. “Sure thing, Matlock.”

Kraus sighs again. “You three really are siblings, aren’t you?” He sits. “Now, as you know, the DA might be interested in-”

A knock on the door, and then Ballard barges in.

“We need you.” She looks at Kraus. “With the other one.”

Sam stares at the door after they close it. He huffs. Several people have crowded outside Dean’s interrogation room, watching as the digital camera is set up across from him.

“Counselor?” Sheridan grins. “Your boy decided to confess.”

“Mr. Winchester?” Kraus warns. “I’d strongly advise against that.”

“Talk directly into the camera, first stating your name for the record.”

Dean clears his throat and sits up. He leans forward and looks into the camera. “My name is Dean Michael Winchester. I’m an Aquarius.” A smile begins to creep onto his face. He knows that if Sam and Olive were to see this, they would roll their eyes and break into a cackle, respectively. “I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women. And I did not kill anyone.” His smile drops. “But I know who did. Or rather, what, did. Of course, it can’t be for sure because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory was that we’re looking for some kind of vengeful spirit.”

“Excuse me?” Ballard spits.

“You know,” Dean shrugs. “Casper the bloodthirsty ghost?”

People in the observation room begin to laugh.

“Tony Giles saw it. I’ll bet you cash money Karen did too. But see, the interesting thing is the word it leaves behind. For some reason, it’s trying to tell us something. But communicating across the veil, it ain’t easy.” Dean shakes his head. “You know, sometimes the spirits, they, they get things jumbled. You remember redrum. Same concept. You know, it’s uh, word fragments, sometimes it’s anagrams. See, at first we thought it was a name. Dana Shulps. But now we think it’s a street. Ashland. Whatever’s going on, I’ll bet you it started there.”

Dean spreads his hands and smiles. His part is done.

“You arrogant bastard!” Sheridan shouts. “Tony and Karen were good people, and you’re making jokes!”

“I’m not joking, Ponch.” Dean’s lip curls up.

“You murdered them in cold blood! Just like that girl in St. Louis!”

“Oh, yeah…” Dean sucks in air through his teeth. “That wasn’t me either. That was a shape-shifter creature that only looked like me.”

He smiles at the camera again, and Sheridan snaps. He picks Dean up by the collar, which is no easy task, as he’s 6’ 2” and about 170 pounds. He slams him against the wall, and although Dean is uncomfortable, he doesn’t flinch. He keeps his cold front.

“Pete, that is enough!” Ballard pulls him off.

“You asked for the truth.” Dean speaks calmly.

“Lock his ass up.” Sheridan spits, dropping Dean to his feet.

Another cop takes over and shoves Dean face-first against the wall, cuffing him. Dean grunts, but a sense of calm washes over him. He did what needed to be done. Sam and Olive would fix it from here.

Sheridan storms into Olive’s interrogation room, only to find her gone. He lets out a frustrated scream and throws a chair across the room. A breeze blows through the window, and he sticks his head out. It’s a five story drop, and the fire escape is at least six feet away. There’s no way she could’ve reached it.

“Where is she!” He shouts.

Ballard comes running. “Sam’s gone!”

She blinks, noticing that Sheridan is the only one in the room. “What?”

“What did they do? The fire escapes way over there! For both of them!”

“These fuckers.” Ballard hisses, showing Sheridan the note left on Sam’s table.

“Hilts and McQueen? Lil and Phil?” Sheridan spits.

“Hilts is Steve McQueen’s character in the Great Escape.” Ballard sighs. “And Lil and Phil are from the Rugrats.”

Sheridan lets out another scream.

                                                              ***

Dean is cuffed once more, in a smaller room. Ballard enters, looking around, nervous. Dean huffs.

“Can we make this quick? I’m a little tired, it’s been a long day, you know, with your partner assaulting me and all.”

“I want to know more about that stuff you were talking about earlier.”

Dean hums. “Time Life. Mysteries of the Unknown. Look it up.”

She circles around to stand in front of him. “Let’s pretend, for the moment, you’re not entirely insane.”

Dean hums again. “What would one of these things be doing here?”

“A vengeful spirit?”

Ballard nods, and Dean pouts as he thinks.

“Well, they’re created by violet deaths. And then they come back for a reason, usually a nasty one. Like revenge on the people that hurt em.”

“And, uh, these things… they’re capable of killing people?” She asks, rubbing her neck.

Dean smiles, lining up his next smart-ass response, when he notices deep, dark bruises on her wrists, the same he had seen on Karen’s.

“Where’d you get those?”

Ballard sighs and pulls up her sleeves, seeing the bruises for the first time.

“I don’t know. It… it wasn’t there before.”

“You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? The spirit?”

“How’d you know?”

“Cause Karen had the same bruises on her wrists. And I’m willing to bet that if you look at Giles’ autopsy photos, he’s got em too. It’s got something to do with this spirit, I… I just don’t know what.”

Ballard turns away, looking into the mirror.

“I know. You think you’re going crazy. But let’s skip that part, shall we? Because the last two people who saw this thing? Died, pretty soon after. You hear me?”

She turns back to him, face drained of color. “You think I’m going to die.”

Dean sighs. “You need to go to Sam and Olive. They’ll help.”

Ballard’s shoulders fall. “You’re giving them up.”

Dean sighs again, looking away. “Go to the first motel listed in the yellow pages. Look for Jim Rockford and Angel Martin. It’s how we find each other when we’re all separated. Now, you can arrest them if you want.” He looks up at her. “Or you can let them save your life.”

Motel Room, Present Day

Sam sits at a desk, rifling through files. Somebody knows on the door, and his head perks up. The person knocks again, and this time Sam gets up. He tucks a handgun into the back of his jeans and looks through the peephole.

He throws the door open with a sigh of relief. Olive tumbles into his arms, shaking. He holds her, then realizes that her legs have given out, and she’s relying entirely on him. He picks her up by the waist and puts her down on the bed, kicking the door shut.

“Bug, what happened?”

She coughs, and a few specks of blood fly out. “I had to jump. I wasn’t gonna make it to the fire escape, so I just went straight down.” She groans. “I landed in a dumpster, my leg broke, and my lungs hurt. I’m mostly healed now, but… it still hurts.” She leans back onto the wall with a heavy sigh.

“Fuck.” Sam mumbles under his breath.

He sees the fear in Olive’s eyes and sits next to her, pulling her to rest in his lap. “Okay. Once we get all of this fixed, I promise we’ll go straight to Bobby. Okay?” He runs a hand through her hair.

She coughs again. “We’ve gotta get Dean.”

The door opens, and Sam whips the gun out, his other hand holding Olive protectively. It’s Ballard. She eyes the gun, and Sam hesitates. She gives a soft smile, and Sam puts the gun down. Olive doesn’t move. She’s scared she’ll cough up a lung, and she’s barely breathing as is. Sam notices Ballard’s eyes on her.

“You’ll have to sit here.” He gestures to the bed.

She does so. “I saw it.”

“What?” Olive speaks, then coughs again, ending with a groan.

Ballard eyes Olive again, then shows Sam her wrists. He takes her hands in his and winces as he looks over the pink skin.

“These showed up after you saw it?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ballard sighs.

“Alright. You’re gonna have to tell me exactly what you saw.”

Ballard hesitates. “You know, I must be losing my mind. You’re both fugitives. I should be arresting you.”

“You can arrest us later.” Olive rasps. “After we get through this.”

“She’s right.” Sam sighs. “Right now you’ve gotta talk to me.”

Ballard nods.

“Okay. The spirit, what did it look like?”

“She was… um, really pale. Her throat was cut, and her eyes… they were like, this deep dark red. It appeared like she was trying to talk to me, but she couldn’t. It was just… a lot of blood.”

“Okay. There.” Sam points to the desk, and she rises, going to it. “I’ve been researching every girl that’s ever died or gone missing from Ashland street.”

“How’d you get these?” Ballard flips through the photos. “These are from crime scenes, and booking photos.”

“You have your job, we have ours. Look through them, tell me if you recognize anyone.”

She sits down and begins to look through papers. Sam turns back to Olive and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I’m gonna get you some water. Okay, bug?”

Olive mumbles an agreement and lets Sam move her out of his lap. He goes to the bathroom, wets a towel, and brings it back, placing it on her forehead. He’s seen her sick like this before, but it’s never been this bad. Panic begins to grow in his chest as he fills a glass with water. He doesn’t know what to do. He needs Dean.

“This is her. I’m sure of it.”

Sam places the cup of water down on the nightstand and goes to stand at the desk with Ballard.

“Claire Becker. Twenty eight years old, disappeared about nine months ago.”

“But I don’t even know her. I mean, why would she come after me?” Ballard’s growing exasperated.

“Well, before her death, she was arrested twice. For dealing heroin. You ever work narcotics?” Sam suggests.

“Yeah, Pete and I did. Before homicide.”

“You ever bust her?”

Ballard shakes her head. “Not that I remember.”

“It says that she was last seen entering 2911 Ashland Street. Police searched the place, didn’t find anything. Guess we gotta check it out ourselves. See if we can find her body.”

“What?” Ballard squints.

“Salt and burn em. It’s the only way to put her spirit to rest.” Olive speaks, eyes closed and voice thin and scratchy.

The panic flares in Sam’s chest once more. He needs Dean. She needs Dean.

Ballard sighs. “Of course it is.”

“Sammy, I wanna come with you. I wanna help.” She starts to sit up.

“No, no, no, Ollie. I can’t let you.” Sam rushes to her side, pushing her back down. “No, baby girl. You’re too weak, you’ve gotta stay here.”

“But I wanna help save Dean.” She whines.

“I know, babes, I know. But I need you safe, and that means you have to stay here.”

“She should be in a hospital right now.” Ballard states.

“No!” Olive jumps, then proceeds to cough, spitting blood into the crook of her elbow.

Sam rubs her back and shakes his head. “No hospitals. She can’t do hospitals.”

“Why not?”

He sighs. “Family issue.”

Olive groans, then rolls onto her side, looking up at Sam with puppy eyes. He sighs again, pushing her hair behind her ear.

“I don’t wanna be alone.” She whispers.

Healing large injuries drains her more than turning itself does. A broken leg is no small feat, and she’s definitely injured her lungs. But she had to get out of there, so she forced herself to begin to heal. Once she’s started, she can’t turn the healing process back off. It’s killing her.

She doesn’t want to be alone when she dies.

They both know it.

He helps her sit up, and they both ignore the grunt of pain that escapes her lips. He holds her tightly, but gently.

“Okay.”

2911 Ashland Street, Present Day

Sam leads them down into a creepy warehouse. Olive has her finger hooked in his belt loop, and her feet are dragging. She’s getting worse by the minute, but she refuses to let her mind slip away, not until she sees Dean.

“So what exactly are we looking for?”

“I’ll let you know when we find it.” Sam whispers.

They split up. Sam and Olive start up a flight of stairs as Ballard continues on the lower level. She turns around a corner, and sees Claire, standing by a window. She gasps, and Claire moves towards her, trying to speak.

“Sam? Sam!”

Sam and Olive share a look. Olive lets go of his belt loop and nods, and he runs back down the stairs, toward Ballard. Claire disappears.

“Hey! Hey, I’m here. What is it, what happened?” Sam looks her up and down, noticing that she’s unscatched.

“Claire…”

“Where?” Olive croaks, making her way down the stairs.

“Here. She was here.”

“Did she attack you?” Sam asks.

Ballard shakes her head. “No,” she hesitates, “No, she was just like… reaching out to me. She was over there by the window.” She points.

Sam and Olive share a look before Sam moves the shelves away from the window. Olive squints as the words printed on the glass become clear.

Ashland Supplies

She snorts. “That’s the word.”

“Well, yeah, now the extra letters make sense.” Sam fishes an EMF reader from his pocket and slowly makes his way to the wall, where the words are perfectly shadowed.

“What is that?”

Olive stumbles to follow her brother as she clears her throat. “Spirits and certain remains give off electromagnetic frequencies.”

“So, if Clarie’s body were here, it would tell you?”

“Yeah, that’s the theory.” Sam mumbles.

The EMF meter begins to purr, and Sam turns back around to a brick wall. He sighs and looks around. Olive spots a rusted crowbar and drags it behind her as she follows Sam. He plucks it from her hand and begins to break through the wall. Olive coughs as dust and debris fly through the air. She slumps down against the staircase, coughing every so often. Her head falls back when she’s not struggling to breathe, and her eyes are beginning to roll into the back of her head.

“There’s definitely something in there.” Sam grunts as he continues to break through the wall. “You know? This is bothering me.”

“Well, you are digging up a corpse.” Ballard shrugs.

“No, no, uh…” Sam chuckles. “That’s pretty par for the course, actually.”

“Then what?”

“I mean, it’s just… no vengeful spirit we’ve ever dealt with wanted to be wasted… so why the hell would Claire lead us to her own remains?”

Olive lets out another cough, this one sounding loud and wet. Sam pauses and stares at her. Her head is back against the wall, her mouth is open and bloody, and her eyes are closed. She’s pale, sweaty, and barely breathing.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Ballard shakes her head, snapping Sam back into reality.

He shakes his head, again glancing over his shoulder at the teenager sprawled on the ground.

“Here, gimme a hand.”

Together, they pull out a body that is wrapped in shrouds of cloth, and place it on the ground. Sam fishes out a pocket knife and cuts the ropes off, revealing the body. He sighs, looking back at Olive. Her eyes are shut, and her head is falling off to the side. Her chest heaves with each breath, and Sam can hear her wheezing. Ballard puts her wrists out, above Claire’s.

“Her wrists, yeah.” Sam turns back. “They’d be bruised just like yours.”

Ballard reaches out with a shaky hand, cautiously touching a necklace on the body. Sam perks up.

“That necklace mean anything to you?”

“I’ve seen it before. It’s rare. It was custom made over on Carson street.” Ballard’s hand goes back to her own neck. “I have one just like it.” She looks up at Sam. “Pete gave it to me.”

He huffs. “Now this makes sense.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She’s a death omen, not a vengeful spirit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Claire’s not killing people.” Sam sighs. “She’s trying to warn them. You see, sometimes, spirits, they don't want revenge. They want justice.” He nods to himself. “Which is why she led us here in the first place. She wants us to know who her killer is.” He pauses, and it clicks in his head. “Detective, how much do you know about your partner?”

“Oh my god.” Ballards face falls.

“About a year ago, some heroin went missing from lockup. Obviously, it was a cop. We never found out who did it, but whoever it was would need someone to fence their product.”

Sam snorts. “Someone like a heroin dealer. Somebody like Claire.”

Olive stumbles to her feet. Her lips are dry and her skin is devoid of color. Her fangs are peeking out of her mouth, and her eyes are watery.

“Dean’s in danger.”

Armored Van on a Highway, Present Day

“So I’m being extradited to St. Louis, huh?”

Dean gets no answer, so he tries again.

“And you just decided to transfer me yourself, eight hundred miles at two in the morning?”

Again, nothing. The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck begin to rise.

“This can’t be good.”

Baltimore, Present Day

“Okay. Thanks.” Ballard snaps her phone shut.

“What is it?” Sam asks, leaning forward.

He’s in the backseat with Olive. She’s in and out of it, and she looks worse every time they pass under a street light.

“Pete just left the precinct. With Dean.”

“What?” Olive forces her eyes open as she sits up, grunting.

“He said the prisoner had to be transfered, and he just took him. Dispatch has been calling but he won’t answer the radio.”

“Radio?” Sam repeats. “He took a county vehicle?”

“Yeah.”

“Well then they should have a lo-jack. We’ve just gotta get it turned on.”

Empty stretch of road, Present Day

The van pulls off onto the side of the road. Dean pushes the rising anxiety and leans forward.

“Pee break? So soon?” He taunts. “Might wanna get your prostate checked.”

Sheridan says nothing before he gets out. Dean listens as the footsteps circle around to the back of the van.

“Son of a bitch.” He groans to himself.

Sheridan yanks the backdoors open, and Dean inches away.

“Hey, man. I’m cool in the van. You go do what you gotta do.”

Sheridan grabs him by the jacket and hauls him out of the van, throwing him onto the wet ground. Dean lands with a grunt, squirming to sit up.

“You’re a cocky son of a bitch.” Sheridan spits. “You think those people in St. Louis are gonna buy that shit you’re peddling?”

Dean makes it to his knees and pants, staring at Sheridan.

“Here’s the thing. You’re not gonna make it to St. Louis. You’re gonna die trying to escape.”

Dean blinks, and Sheridan’s gun is out, pointed between his eyes.

“Wait!” Dean pleads. “Wait, let’s talk about this. I mean, you don’t wanna do something that you’re gonna regret later.”

Sheridan only cocks the gun.

“Or maybe you do.”

Olive growls from low in her throat, holding back a cough and the load of blood in her mouth. Sheridan turns at the noise, and Ballard puts her gun up. Sam tucks Olive into his side, shielding her from the gun. She’s shaking, and Dean’s eyes are glued to her.

His stomach drops. She’s dying. He knows it.

“Pete! Put the gun down.”

“Diana? How’d you find me?” The gun goes back to Dean’s head, and Olive feels bile rise in her throat.

Sam hugs her tighter.

“I know about Claire.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sheridan shakes his head, gun still up.

“Put the gun down!” She shouts.

Sheridan drops the act, and a smirk grows on his face. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re fast. I’m pretty sure I’m faster.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I didn’t do anything, Diana.” Sheridan shakes his head.

“It’s a little late for that.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Sheridan scoots closer to Dean, and another growl rips through Olive’s throat.

She swallows what she can and spits blood onto the grass.

“Claire was trying to turn me in! I had no choice.”

“And Tony? Karen?”

Sheridan shakes his head again. “Same thing! Tony scrubbed the money, he got skittish, and then he wanted to come clean. I’m sure he told Karen everything.”

Dean’s eyes go back to his younger siblings. Sam’s holding the entirety of Olive’s weight, and he’s looking at Dean with big eyes. Dean shakes his head, and Sam looks about ready to cry. Olive lets out a weak cough.

“It was a mess. I had to clean it up. I just panicked.” Sheridan shook his head.

“How many more people are gonna die over this, Pete?”

“There’s a way out.” Sheridan looks back at Dean. “This Dean kid’s a freaking gift. We could pin the whole thing on him. Right? No trial, nothing. Just… just one more dead scumbag.”

“Hey.” Dean fronts.

Sheridan puts the gun closer, and Dean backs off, shoulders falling.

“No one will question it. Diana, please.” Sheridan begs. “I still love you.”

Ballard puts the gun down with a sigh. Dean’s eyes fill with tears as Sheridan’s gun connects with his head. A loud growl tears through the trees, and Sheridan is tackled to the ground. Dean rolls out of the way, and Sam pulls him up. Ballard tries to get a shot, but she can’t.

There’s another loud growl, and the tangle of limbs stops moving. Sheridan is down, and Olive falls to her knees, coughing loudly and violently. Blood sprays everywhere, and the second she stops coughing she begins to throw up. Sam rushes over, holding her hair back. Diana unlocks Dean’s handcuffs, and he joins his brother, watching as Olive fights to breathe.

Blood continues to drip from her mouth as she wheezes, chest heaving. Dean pulls her into his chest, and she begins to shake.

“So now what, officer?” Dean asks, cradling Olive like a baby.

“Pete did confess to me. He screwed up all your cases. Royally. I’d say there’s a good chance that we could get them dismissed.”

“You’d take care of that for us?” Sam looks up.

“Yeah. But the St. Louis murder charges? That’s another story. I can’t help you. Unless…” Ballard sighs. “I just happened to turn my back, and you walked away. I could just tell them that the suspects escaped.”

“Wait, are you sure?” Sam’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah, she’s sure, Sam.” Dean hissed.

“No, it’s just… I mean, you could lose your job over something like that.”

She shakes her head. “Look, I just want you guys out there doing what you do best. Trust me, I’ll sleep better at night.”

Olive lets out another strangled cough, and Dean pushes her hair from her face.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Ballard asks.

“I don’t know.” Sam whispers, in shock.

“Where’s my car?” Dean calls.

“It’s at the impound yard down on Robertson.”

Dean groans, shooting Sam a look. “We need Dad’s journal, it could have answers.”

Ballard shakes her head. “Don’t even think about taking the car. You guys have to get out of here. I have to radio this in.”

The boys nod and Dean hoists Olive up. Coughs continue to rack her body, and she’s spitting blood everywhere. Sam takes her from him and they start down the muddy road.

“Dean, what do we do?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen her like this before.” Dean hisses back.

“We’re miles away from Dad’s journal. We’ll never make it in time.”

Olive wheezes, then coughs again, choking on her blood and spit. Dean stops, panting. He shakes his head at Sam, who is staring back with wide eyes.

“Sam, we can’t do anything.”

Olive’s stomach heaves again, and blood is the only thing to come out. Sam sighs as he stops. The brothers kneel down, and Sam places Olive between them.

She stares between the two with tears in her eyes.

I’m sorry.

Dean pushes her hair out of her face with a soft smile. “We love you.”

Sam is trembling, enraged. He picks her back up and shakes his head. Dean follows, shouting Sam’s name.

“We have to be able to do something, Dean. I’m not gonna watch her die.”

“We don’t have Dad’s journal!”

“Then we call Bobby!”

“Sam, we don’t even know if Bobby knows.”

“We have to try!”

Dean swallows the bad taste in his mouth as he yanks out his phone and dial’s Bobby’s number. Olive coughs.

He puts it on speaker. “Hello.”

“Bobby!” Sam shouts.

“What’s wrong, kids?”

“Olive’s dying, we don’t know what to do!”

“What?”

“Bobby, we’ve gotta tell you something important.”

“You sister’s part Okami. I know. What happened?”

The boys blink at each other, but a groan from Olive snaps them back into reality.

“The healing process is killing her. What do we do?”

There’s a long sigh, and Dean watches the little color left in Olive’s face drain. Her chest heaves once more, and then she stops breathing. He drops the phone, snatching Olive from Sam’s hold.

“Olive!”

“Bobby!” Sam grabs the phone, in tears.

“Blood.”

“What?”

“She needs blood. Once a day, every day. It’ll make her stronger, she won’t get sick again.”

“Bobby, we’re not-”

“Gimme your knife.” Dean interrupts.

“What?” Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Give me your fucking knife!”

Sam doesn’t move, and Dean forces Olive’s mouth open. He slices his palm against her fang and groans as blood trickles out.

It falls in droplets, staining her teeth and her tongue. The phone call is long forgotten, and Sam is on his knees by their side. Olive’s eyes begin to twitch behind her eyelids, and Dean gasps. He squeezes his hand, bleeding harder.

A second passes, and Sam stares at Dean. Dean doesn’t look up from Olive.

Her fangs begin to recede, and Dean watches, shaking. A small cough moves her body, and then she begins to wheeze. Sam drops his head to her chest. He hears her heart and he lets out a loud sigh, resting his head against her.

“Boys?”

Her voice is soft and unharmed. She sounds like she just woke up from a nap. Dean pulls her up and hugs her. She sniffs, reaching up to rub her eyes.

“How?”

Sam lets out a weak laugh and brushes her hair back. “Dean saved you.”

She leans into her oldest brother and looks up with a soft smile.

“Thanks, De.”

He laughs and kisses the top of her head before pulling her back into a second hug. “Anything for you, baby girl. Anything for you.”

Previous Ep: No Exit (2.06)

Next Ep: Crossroad Blues (2.08)

taglist:

@i67​

[mindfulwrathwrites]

Remote Sensation

I’m sick as a dog this weekend, so if this happens to seem familiar ... just don’t worry about it, yeah?

Words: Several Warnings: None

...

At 0500, the alarm goes off. Benoit slaps at the clock and groans. He rolls out of bed and drifts through his morning routine half-awake—dress, brush teeth, comb hair, wash face, make bed, grab badge and dosimeter, make morning log entry.

Benoit Boer, Day 655, still not dead or crazy.

By 0530, he’s sitting down to breakfast and coffee downstairs. The comms screen chirps, exactly on time, and Benoit slaps that, too. Giles appears on it, yawning.

“Morning, Ben,” he says, crackly with static.

“Morning,” says Benoit. “How’s the weather up there?”

“It’s a beautiful day,” says Giles. “Chilly on the night side, but warmer on the sunny side, partly space with a chance of space.”

Benoit snorts. “And how’s my weather looking?”

“No flares, plasma events, or comets. Not a cloud in the sky and no atmosphere, either.”

“Perfect. What about the Drill?”

“Been better. We got a piece of grit or something in the percussion sleeve, it’s causing a friction anomaly. Otherwise, it’s all routine. Pumps are pumping, pipes are piping, tanks are tanking. Is that what tanks do?”

“Tanks tanking, yep, you got it,” says Benoit, smirking into his reconstituted eggs. “Do you have telemetry on the resupply yet?”

“Not yet, but we should pick it up around lunchtime. Should I let you know when we ping it?”

“Nah, just catch me up at lunchtime. I don’t want you buzzing in my ear while I’m elbow-deep in brine and oil.”

“I don’t buzz,” says Giles, offended. “And speaking of resupply, how’re yours holding up? By the numbers you’ll make it even if we lose this one, but if any of it has gone bad, we might have to work on a ration plan.”

“Looked fine when I pulled all this out. The coffee’s a little off, but it’s not mold. Plastic seepage, I think.”

“That’s not good. Those are carcinogens you’re imbibing.”

“Worth it for the caffeine, and anyways, if anything’s going to give me cancer, it’ll be the radiation. Damn space, always irradiating me.”

“It’d be preferable if nothing gave you cancer at all.”

“In a perfect world,” Benoit sighs.

“Are you feeling all right? Should I move up your next medical evaluation?”

“No, God no, move it back, if possible.”

“I really can’t. Regulations and all.”

“A man can dream. How are things up there, speaking of radiation?”

“Orbital module is ship-shape. We’re clean, stable, and prepared to adjust attitude for the resupply, once we have telemetry.”

“Wish I could adjust your attitude, heyo.”

Giles scowls at him. Benoit rolls his eyes.

“Come on, that was a good one.”

“I don’t appreciate it.”

“Buzzkill.”

“I’ll note your observation. About time to head on, Ben!”

Benoit sighs again. He slurps down the rest of his coffee, crams the rest of his eggs in his mouth, and checks his watch—0547.

“Guess so,” he says. “Which suit today?”

“Take the Three. Number One was showing some stress on the oxygen tubing and Two still has that crack in the face shield.”

“Shit, I never did fix that, did I.”

“Should I set you a reminder?”

“Oh, shut up, would you?”

Giles scowls at him again. The comms screen cuts out. Benoit smacks it.

“I didn’t mean it, you stupid—drama queen,” he mutters.

When there’s no response, he gathers up his dishes and heads on.

It takes forty minutes to get into the suit, even with Giles’s (silent) remote assistance. Then it’s a fifteen-minute bounce across a quarter-mile of rock-hard ice floes to the Drill, and the pumps, and the tanks. Galveston, Inc. didn’t screw around when it came to hardware; Benoit is completely dwarfed by the things, each the size of a building. They, in turn, are completely dwarfed by Jupiter, filling the sky like a waterfall of oil paints. It looks close enough to reach up and touch. Even after all this time, Benoit has to take a moment to just stand and stare, let the awe wash through him and fade away again before getting to work.

And the work is hard, and dirty, and cramped, even after all this time. The suit is cumbersome, the machinery is ornery, the light conditions range from dim to pitch-black. Benoit alternates between sweating to death and freezing solid, his air growing steadily more stale as he breathes it over and over again. Four hours pass in a snow-blind haze. His radio crackles in his ear, harmonic resonance with the constant electromagnetic scream pouring out of Jupiter. When he shuts his eyes, tiny flickers and flashes of light ping against his eyelids, cosmic particles zipping through his retinas like BB’s through tissue paper.

He heads back to the bio-building for lunch, and Giles, who’s finished sulking, updates him on the status of the resupply—he picked it up on sensors an hour ago, and it’s on course to arrive day after tomorrow. That brightens the day considerably, even through another six hours of back-breaking work. Giles sticks with him through the afternoon, since it’s all routine maintenance—chatters in his ear, gives him updates on windspeeds on Jupiter, auroras he’s seen, ice floe shifts and minor impacts he’s picked up nearby. They’re approaching another tidal resonance with Io and Ganymede, so it’s likely to be a bumpy weekend, although Benoit will be up in the orbiter through the whole thing. Benoit lets him talk all through the afternoon, and then through dinner as well. Giles signs off at the appropriate time, 1800 on the dot, and Benoit is left alone.

The evening routine is as well-worn as the morning one. He showers, cleans all his dishes, takes care of little maintenance issues with the bio-building and his suits. He pulls up the resupply ship’s tracking info, watches it trace its little green line through the darkness, terribly slow but right on course. He reads for half an hour about auroras on Jupiter. At 2100, he turns off the lights, lies down and tucks the covers up to his chin, nestles in. All he can see out the porthole is stars, familiar constellations washed out amidst the sea of lights. With no atmosphere or human illumination to backfill the darkness, the night sky is impossibly deep, and every drop of it brimming with billions of far-off suns. His breathing fills the room, tiny and alone, alone, alone against the vastness outside.

“Giles?” he whispers.

A light flickers on.

“Yes, Ben?”

“Can you stop logging for me?”

“Logging paused. What’s up?”

Benoit swallows down the lump in his throat, blinks the moisture from his eyes.

“I’m … really looking forward to seeing you, at resupply,” he says. “A lot.”

“Aw, Ben. I’m looking forward to seeing you, too.”

Despite the pain in his chest, Benoit smiles.

“I guess it’s not that much different for you, though. You see me all the time.”

“Sure, but you’re always happier when you’re in orbit. I like that. Oh, and while we’re not logging... You haven’t made your nightly report. I just wanted to make sure, you know, that you didn’t forget? And that you don’t forget to mention about me.”

“Oh, shit. Resume logging and repeat that reminder, if you could.”

“Resumed logging. Hey, Ben, you forgot your nightly report.”

“Shit, you’re right. Thanks for the reminder, I’ll do that now. See you in the morning, Giles.”

“See you in the morning, Ben. Sweet dreams.”

The comms screen goes dark. Benoit rolls onto his side and prods a few buttons, pulls up his reports. He dictates the same thing he says every night.

Benoit Boer, still alive and sane. Pump station and orbiter both still functional. No disasters today. GALILEO Intelligent Liaison Experiment Satellite continues to function optimally; do not reboot or debug.

With his assets thus secured, and the promise of the long-awaited resupply soaring towards him through the starry night, he settles in to sleep.

[burclay]

Be Held Chapter 7

“Yeah, I get it,” Buffy said. “England’s better than we think.” She grinned. “If your name is Earl Grey.”

“Well,” Giles said, hiding his indignation behind his Britishness in such a familiar way, “I’m going to bed.”

AO3 Chapter 1

Buffy had had it with emotions. She had defeated the literal First Evil, she had averted the apocalypse, and now she had to deal with all these feelings , like exhaustion and love and embarrassment and anxiety.

And Faith was so calm through it all. Buffy didn’t get how she did it. But then again, Faith hadn’t gotten where she was by wearing her emotions on her sleeve. And Faith wan’t the one standing next to her girlfriend and asking to crash at her ex’s.

So Buffy backed up and did some Slayer wrangling, making sure that everyone had roommates they could deal with while Faith talked to Angel about rooms. Soon enough, most of the Slayers had gone up to their rooms to sleep, and Buffy, Faith, Xander, Willow, Kennedy, Giles, Dawn, and Angel sat in the hotel lobby.

“So, you’ve all been busy,” Angel said.

“Pretty much,” Buffy said.

Angel surveyed the group. “Who’s…” He gestured at Kennedy.

“This is Kennedy,” Willow said. “She’s a Slayer.”

“Huh. Seem to be a lot of those lately.”

“You said you had some?” Giles asked.

Angel nodded. “One’s been living here. She’s asleep on the third floor. There’s another in the suburbs, who has a pretty picturesque life. She doesn’t have much interest in being a Slayer, and she won’t cause trouble if you leave her alone. There are a couple more who would go with you if you asked, and one who’s a trickier case.”

“Never seen one of those before,” Buffy muttered.

“I’ll take care of it,” Faith said, shooting Buffy a glare.

“She’s holed up in an abandoned movie theater,” Angel said. “I think she’s using vampires as slaves.”

“Good for her,” Kennedy commented. She leaned forward and addressed the group. “But what are we going to do with all these girls?”

“Spread out,” Buffy said, sitting up straighter. “We set up a base for training, and then when we’ve got girls trained up, we send them into the world.” She looked around at the others. “I mean, that makes sense, right?”

“I’d say I’m looking right at the core training staff,” Angel said.

“Works for me,” said Faith. “Where’s our base?”

“Might I suggest England?” Giles asked. “The resources of the Council--”

“Didn’t the Council explode?” Willow asked.

“Yes, but that was not their only stronghold,” Giles explained. “The Council, as a rule, is careful, and it is old. Furthermore, for all intents and purposes, at this point, I am the Council, as the only remaining active Watcher. Therefore, I will be able to take over their resources in order to properly train and support Slayers.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Faith said.

“So, we all head overseas?” Dawn asked.

“Pretty expensive proposal,” Xander said.

“The Council has always been a wealthy organization,” Giles said. “It has had thousands of years to accumulate wealth and resources.”

“We’ll have to ask the girls if they actually want to go,” Buffy said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “I mean, if there’s not a chosen one, surely they can do their own choosing, right?”

“Jealous?” Faith asked.

“What? No!” Buffy exclaimed. When everyone in the room stared at her, she sighed.  “Well, a little. I wouldn’t have chosen to be a Slayer.”

“Neither would I,” Kennedy said, “but I can’t go back to my life now that I know about this.”

“We’ll let the Slayers decide,” Giles said. “Some may agree with you, Kennedy. But they deserve the choice, now that they have it.”

“And so do all of you,” Buffy said. “If any of you non-Slayer types don’t want to stay with us--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Willow interrupted.

“We’re with you, Buff,” Xander agreed.

Buffy shrugged. “Just checking.”

“I can get you plane tickets,” Angel said. “I just need a head count.”

“Some of us should stay back,” Willow said. “For the new new Slayers.”

“Faith and I can handle it,” Buffy said. “One last California quest before we go to the land of no sun and scones.”

Faith laughed. Giles scoffed.

“I’ll have you know--”

“Yeah, I get it,” Buffy said. “England’s better than we think.” She grinned. “If your name is Earl Grey.”

“Well,” Giles said, hiding his indignation behind his Britishness in such a familiar way, “I’m going to bed. I’ll make some calls in the morning and get access to the Watcher Council funds.” He stood and left, up the stairs to his room.

Willow got up, saying a quick good night and pulling Kennedy after her, and then Dawn made a wisecrack about it being past her bedtime, and even Faith left, and a moment later everyone was gone but Angel and Buffy.

Buffy sighed. “And here we are again.” She stood to leave. “I’m going up, too. Thanks for letting us stay.”

Angel stood too. “No problem. I’m always glad to help.”

“Helping the helpless, right?”

“You’ve never been helpless.”

Buffy smiled and went up the stairs to the room, where Faith was already curled up under the covers. Maybe Buffy had never been helpless, but she had been afraid, and she realized in this moment that she wasn’t.

How strange.

She got into bed and fell asleep in moments.

The morning brought with it a frenzy of activity; everyone was calling somebody, everyone had to be updated on what was going on, and all the Slayers were being put on the bus to the airport, either to go to England or to go back to their homes. Angel’s co-workers were around, too, trying to actually run their business, which was awkward when one of them was Wesley, and when their clients came in to see twenty teenage girls packing weapons into suitcases. Buffy wound up answering a million questions from what seemed like a million Slayers, and then Fred came up to her, grim-faced girl in tow.

“Buffy, this is Madison. She’s a Slayer.”

“Hi, Madison,” Buffy said. “I’m Buffy. Um, I’m also a Slayer. Are you joining the group?”

Madison nodded.

“We’re glad to have you.” Buffy tried for a warm smile. She didn’t really know what else to say. “Have you Slain anything yet?”

“I’ve gone with Angel’s team a couple of times,” Madison said. “Killed a few vampires.”

“She’s being humble,” Fred said. “She took down three at once her first time out.”

“I almost died,” she said, her face still expressionless. “I want to learn how to live.”

“Can I tell you something?” Buffy asked.

“If you want.”

“I’ve almost died more than I can count. I even actually died a couple of times. It’s hard, being a Slayer, but more people are alive at the end than would be if you hadn’t been there, even if you’re not one of them. Three vampires your first Slay is incredible. But don’t think it’s going to get easier.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Madison nodded again. “I don’t feel safe here,” she said. “I want to go with you.”

“Okay,” Buffy said. “Do you want to go today, or in a few days when Faith and I bring the other local Slayers?”

“I’ll go today.”

“Fred, can you tell Dawn to add her to the count?”

“I’m on it,” Fred said, walking off.

Buffy turned back to the girl in front of her. “We’ll be glad to have you, Madison.” She paused. “Do you want to go talk to some of the other Slayers? There are lots of them. I’m sure one of them will be your friend.”

“Okay.” Madison walked away, towards the center of the lobby where girls were gathered, talking and laughing. Buffy looked at them, at Madison hanging out on the edges, and was glad for a moment that these girls had each other. Never again would there be one girl in all the world, or one girl in all the world and the one other girl in all the world.

Buffy looked at the scene in front of her, and then she turned away to look for Faith.

Finally, two hours later, everyone was on a bus to LAX, and Buffy stoodwith Faith in the lobby of Angel Investigations, feeling oddly adrift.

“So, now we look for those other Slayers?” Buffy asked.

“Guess so,” Faith answered. “Come on, let’s go ask Angel where they are.”

Fifteen minutes later, Faith and Buffy were on the streets, addresses in hand.

“We should split up,” Faith said. “You get Tina, I get Jaya, we meet up for Nadia.”

“No,” Buffy said. “This is our last mission as the Chosen Ones. We go together.”

Buffy could practically hear Faith’s eye-roll, but Faith didn’t say anything.

They got to the first address, a shabby apartment building not too far from the hotel. Buffy stood awkwardly at the doorway, unsure of what to do, but Faith walked right in and pushed a buzzer, and so Buffy took a few more steps in and stood behind Faith.

“Aren’t these buildings supposed to have doormen?”

“The nice ones are,” Faith answered.

A voice crackled over the speaker.

“Hello?” It couldn’t have been the voice of anyone over twelve.

“Hey. This is Faith and Buffy. We’re Angel’s friends. We’re here to see Tina.”

“That’s me. Come upstairs.”

Faith led the way up the stairs to Tina’s apartment. She knocked on the door, and a tiny girl with wide eyes opened the door. Behind her Buffy could see a sofa and the edge of a coffee table against gray walls.

“Are you guys Slayers?” she asked.

Faith and Buffy exchanged a look.

“Yes,” Buffy said. “Just like you.”

Tina backed away and held the door open, so Buffy and Faith stepped through and into the living space.

“You guys can sit down if you want,” Tina said.

“Okay.” Buffy sat on the sofa, and after a moment, Faith sat next to her. Tina sat cross-legged on the coffee table, her eyes darting between Buffy and Faith. She leaned in.

“Do you guys really kill vampires?”

“Every day, practically,” Faith said.

“Wow.”

“Have you seen any vampires?” Buffy asked.

“Angel showed me one,” Tina said. “He took it down. He’s not a Slayer, is he?”

“No,” Buffy said. “He’s just had a lot of practice.”

“So, Tina, do you want to learn to do that?” Faith asked. “Be a Slayer?”

Tina nodded. “I think so.”

“You might have to go far away,” Buffy said.

“That’s okay,” Tina said. “My mom doesn’t really care about me. She doesn’t stay here most of the time.”

Buffy looked around the room. She had thought that it was so clean because it was well-kept, but she realized it was so clean because no one used it.

“Do you want to come with us now?” Faith asked.

“Can I?” Tina asked. Her posture was suddenly straighter. “Can I go with you and never come back here? Ever?”

“It’ll be hard,” Faith said. “Being a Slayer is hard. But we’ll feed you, and give you a place to sleep, and what more could you ask for? Bit like prison in that way.”

“Don’t scare her, Faith,” Buffy hissed.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“But it’ll be like you have lots of sisters,” Buffy said. “You won’t be alone.”

They left the building with Tina between them. It was a short walk full of questions and answers, and before long they were in another building, ringing another buzzer.

Jaya actually appeared just as they were asking for her over the intercom; a man’s voice had just said that she was out when she walked in. She was right in the middle of letting her hair out of its braid when she stopped and glared at Buffy and Faith.

“Why’re you looking for me?” she demanded, crossing her arms and leaning back on one foot, hair half-braided. Buffy almost laughed; it was a pose she was so used to from Faith. Jaya was about as old as Faith and Buffy had been, too, when they had met.

“We’re Angel’s friends,” Faith said.

“Angel?”

“Tall, dark hair, leather jacket?” Buffy asked. “Might have talked to you about being a Slayer?”

“Oh, that Angel.” Jaya’s posture relaxed. “You two are going to teach me to kill vampires?”

“Something like that,” Buffy said.

“If you want to,” Faith said. “And if you can come to England.”

Jaya shrugged. “I’ll do anything if you can convince my parents.”

“Can we set up, like, a fake boarding school?” Faith asked Buffy. “With a ton of financial aid?”

“Could probably set up a real boarding school,” Buffy said. She turned her attention back to Jaya. “Stay here until next fall. By then, we’ll either have someone in L. A. to teach you, or we’ll be able to sell an impressive boarding school.”

Jaya’s facade of strength cracked. Her arms fell to her side. “Will I be safe here? Without training?”

“Angel can help,” Buffy said. “He and his people can protect you and teach you some stuff.”

“I don’t trust him,” Jaya said. “He’s weird. Isn’t this Slayer thing supposed to be about girl power or something?”

“How about Fred?” Faith asked. “You know her?”

“Yeah. She’s okay.”

“Hang out with her,” Faith said. “She can help you, too. Just let Angel teach you some cool kicks, okay?”

Jaya nodded. Her eyes traveled from Faith to Tina.

“You a Slayer, too?”

“Yeah,” Tina answered. “I’m going to England.”

“Good luck, kid.” Jaya held up her hand for a high five. Tina slapped her hand with force that would have moved a lesser soul to tears, but not a Slayer.

“Thanks,” she said.

“We’ll be in touch,” Buffy said. “If Angel’s people call, answer.”

And they left, still towing Tina.

“Where’s the third?” Faith asked.

Buffy held up the address sheet. “The address is just the movie theater.”

Buffy looked down at Tina. “We can worry about her tomorrow. We should probably go in daylight, if she’s got vampire slaves.”

“And maybe we shouldn’t take an inexperienced kid?”

Tina poked Faith’s hip, which was the only part she could reach. “Hey!”

“Sorry, Teeny.” Faith shrugged. “But trust me, you don’t want to walk into an abandoned movie theater with a potentially rogue Slayer after dark. Even with me and B along.”

“You want dinner?” Buffy asked. “We could order pizza to the hotel.”

“I like pizza,” Tina said.

A few minutes later, they were back at the hotel and Buffy was on the phone, calling in an order for the whole Angel Investigations team. The rest of the evening felt a little bit like a party, with everyone sitting around with pizza, talking about-- well, mostly about the demons they had killed, which ruined the mood a little bit, but it wasn’t every day that they had a wide-eyed newbie hanging on to their every word.

Although maybe it was, now.

At any rate, it was exactly what Buffy needed: a regular evening without twenty teenagers relying on her to know what to do, even if one of them was her vampire ex, and one of them had been a Watcher she had hated, and one of them was an eleven-year-old who was really not old enough for everything she was about to experience. She enjoyed watching Angel bicker with his friends (including and especially Faith), and she enjoyed the tag-team storytelling that she, Angel, and Faith could pull off, with memories of when life was just a couple of Slayers against an entire world of evil. And she liked hearing the stories that Angel’s people had, too; they had been through as much as Buffy.

Later, when she was lying next to Faith in their room (Angel had offered separate rooms, but he hadn’t seemed too surprised when neither Buffy nor Faith wanted to switch), Buffy asked, “Are we like moms now? Telling stories of the good old days and trying to figure out what to do with eleven-year-olds?”

“I told you,” Faith said. She was lying on her stomach and doodling on a pad of paper that Buffy was pretty sure she had stolen from the motel. “I’m the weird aunt.”

“I’m serious, Faith. We’re going to go to England, and there are still going to be all these people looking up to us.”

“To you,” Faith said. “Who’d look up to me?”

“Girls like you,” Buffy said, her voice quiet. “The ones who are seventeen and confused and in a bad place. You’re not so bad, Faith.”

“Nicest thing you’ve ever said about me,” Faith joked, but it wasn’t quite a joke.

“Not true!” Buffy sat up and faced Faith. “I’ve said lots of nice things about you. Like, you’re good at Slaying when you’re not evil, and your hair is really nice, and--” Buffy stopped, distracted by Faith’s hair. It really was nice, especially with the way the low light was making it glow as it fell over Faith’s shoulder.

Faith looked at Buffy. “And what?”

“Nothing.” Buffy blushed. “I, um, got distracted by your hair.”

Faith sat up, tossing her head. “You wouldn’t be the first.” She leaned in, her face close to Buffy’s, their foreheads almost touching. “Are you distracted by anything else?”

With a smile, Buffy pulled Faith in for a kiss.

[jennycalendar]

very really married (9/15)

read it on ao3!

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT. WE HAVE AN ACTUAL NUMBER OF CHAPTERS. EXCITING !!!!!!

for real, tho, this started off as a very self-indulgent half-conceived plot bunny that came from me wanting to write a s1 where giles and jenny were fake married, and then it turned into....something...with a plot. incredible. i am so so happy to say that it’s finished, and it’s coherent, and it is something i am so proud of--and i am super looking forward to posting the remaining chapters !!!!

Giles supposed that the mystery of Jenny might trouble him more if he hadn’t gotten to know her so well over the last few months. She had proven so many times over that her primary goal was to protect the people she cared for. It was perhaps foolish of him to trust her so implicitly, but the feeling in his chest when he looked at her felt too strong to be incorrect. It also felt too strong to be simply attraction, but…that was a problem to be addressed later, he hoped. There were other problems they were facing at the moment.

“Principal Snyder’s trying to leverage that one time he saw us holding hands in a faculty meeting to get me to pass all the athletes taking his class,” Jenny was telling Giles, carding her fingers absently through his hair. Her wedding ring caught briefly, but the light tug just made Giles smile. He liked being reminded that it was his wife sitting atop his desk while he took his tea. “And I was like, I mean, we’ve done so much worse on the premises. Didn’t you feel me up in a broom closet on Monday?”

“You make it sound so crass,” said Giles, his smile widening. Leaning back in his office chair, he tilted his head back to rest it in Jenny’s lap.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Jenny, and leaned down to kiss him. “Didn’t you rest your hand upon my heaving bosom on Monday?”

“That’s worse,” said Giles seriously, delighting in Jenny’s laugh. “That’s—that’s terrible romance novel language, Jenny.”

“A poet I am not,” said Jenny unapologetically. She grinned, thoughtful. “Can you come up with something better?”

Giles considered this, resting his cheek on her leg as he did so. “I felt you up in a broom closet on Monday,” he conceded. “Though if I recall, you did a fair amount of feeling up in return.”

“And who could blame me?” Jenny kissed him again, then sighed. “I should probably go set up the lab.”

“Should you?”

“You’re the worst,” said Jenny, not very seriously. “Really, I should—”

Outside Giles’s office, the sound of loud, cheerful voices could be heard as the library doors burst open. “GILES!” Buffy called, heedless of any rules regarding the library being a quiet place. “We need to talk!”

“Duty calls, huh?” Jenny brushed her fingers gently against Giles’s cheek. He shivered. “At least they aren’t gonna flip if they see me coming out of your office.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Giles ruefully, sitting up. “I rather think we scarred Buffy for life with our little morgue drawer display.” He stood, turning to offer Jenny a hand. She took it, and he tugged her gently off the desk, taking a deliberate extra moment to steady her. “Be out in a second, Buffy!” he called, then kissed Jenny’s nose. She laughed.

“Giles, can you please stop making out with your wife and just come out here?” Buffy called.

Giles rolled his eyes a little, opening the office door and leaning against the doorframe. Jenny stepped up next to him. “What brings you three to the library this early?” he asked, a little concerned by the answer. “Generally our—ah—study group doesn’t meet before lunch.”

“Yeah, well, that was before Angel and I had to fend off three really nasty—” Buffy stopped, glancing furtively at Jenny. “Um, they—”

“Vampires?” said Jenny.

Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Giles all stared incredulously at her.

“Look, I, uh, know you’re shocked,” continued Jenny, completely misinterpreting their stares, “but you all seem absolutely hell-bent on placing yourselves in progressively weirder and more dangerous situation. After that stuff with the hyenas last week, I think it’s important that you all know about the whole vampire situation in Sunnydale.”

“I’m sorry?” said Giles.

“Vampires are real,” said Jenny patiently.

Buffy gaped at Jenny. After a very pointed look from Giles, she seemed to remember how to speak again. “Yep!” she managed. “Vampires! Wow, that is some shocking information right there, Ms. Calendar, and it brings up a lot of questions!”

“Like, say, how does Ms. Calendar know about vampires without Giles knowing Ms. Calendar knew about vampires?” Willow asked.

“That is a very good question, Willow,” said Buffy, giving Giles a death glare. “Why would Giles not know that his wife knew about vampires? Especially considering—”

“—that I myself am working on a paranormal book,” Giles finished very loudly, glaring right back at Buffy. “Jenny, why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

Jenny exhaled, looking up at Giles. “I didn’t want to put you in danger,” she said softly. “You find it easily enough even without knowing about vampires.”

This made sense, and didn’t surprise Giles in the slightest. Most of this information wasn’t new to him, after all. What was new was the fact that Jenny had just made her knowledge of the supernatural very clear to the children, and the children now knew that Jenny knew about vampires, which raised a lot of obvious questions as to why Giles hadn’t yet told her he was a Watcher. “I understand,” he said, smiling weakly. He did his best not to look at Buffy, Willow, and Xander, who all looked varying degrees of disapproving. “That, um, must have caused you quite a lot of worry.”

Jenny waved a dismissive hand. “We’ve been through that part before,” she said. “You know I worry about you. That’s not in question. What I want to know is why there were vampires chasing Buffy and—” She stopped, a strange expression on her face, and then said, “Angel.”

Buffy didn’t miss this. “Do you know Angel?” she asked curiously.

“You said he helped you fend off some vampires last night?” Jenny asked, so confident and casual that only Giles noticed she hadn’t answered Buffy’s question.

“Yeah,” said Buffy. A soft, slow smile spread across her face. “He had to spend the night with me.”

Jenny blanched. Willow beamed. Xander said, loud and furious, “He spent the night? In your room? In your bed?”

“Not in my bed,” Buffy corrected, still smiling. “By my bed.”

“That is so romantic!” Willow sighed. “Did you, uh…I mean, did he, uh…”

“Perfect gentleman,” said Buffy dreamily.

“Did you invite him in?” said Jenny suddenly.

Buffy looked surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Did you say the words come in?” Jenny had a strange look in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” said Buffy slowly, looking a little amused. “It was kind of a life-or-death situation. You know how it is with vampires.”

“Unfortunately,” said Jenny grimly. “Buffy, Angel isn’t the kind of guy you want in your bedroom.”

“Thank you,” said Xander loudly, looking extremely pleased. “See? Even Ms. Calendar thinks Angel’s bad news.”

“You said yourself he’s not dangerous, didn’t you?” Buffy said plaintively, directing large puppy eyes at Jenny. “And nothing happened. He’s a good guy.”

Jenny bit her lip, considering. Then she said, “If anything happens, you let me know, Buffy. Do you understand that? Any single, solitary thing that seems out of the ordinary—”

“And I come to you, I got it.” Buffy beamed angelically.

Giles was beginning to frown. It was one thing for Jenny to have her secrets, but quite another for her secrets to intersect with his authority as a Watcher. Anything out of the ordinary that Buffy experienced had to be first and foremost reported to Giles, not Jenny. “May I speak with you in private?” he asked quietly, tugging at Jenny’s sleeve.

Jenny looked a little surprised. “Sure,” she said, and let him lead her back into the office. As he shut the door, she sat down on the top of his desk, surveying him with a hopeful interest. “Stealing a kiss?” she said lightly.

“Not quite,” said Giles. “Jenny, what is going on between you and Angel? It’s clear you know something about him that you aren’t divulging.”

Jenny considered this. Then she said, “Rupert, you took that new information about vampires a lot better than I expected you to. What’s up with that?”

Giles exhaled, impatient. “I research the supernatural quite extensively,” he said. “The concept of vampires being real is a possibility that has crossed my mind more than once. What don’t Buffy and I know about Angel?”

“Something that isn’t any of your business,” said Jenny. “Something that shouldn’t be any of your business, not if I have anything to say about it. He shouldn’t be staying in a teenage girl’s bedroom.”

“He seems a decent enough fellow,” said Giles quietly. “Certainly not the type to take any liberties.”

“You don’t know him,” said Jenny, looking directly up at Giles.

“And that’d be helped if you told me why I should be worried!” Giles snapped, frustrated.

Jenny flushed, looking genuinely hurt. As she crossed her arms against her chest, Giles felt a sudden, painful twinge of guilt. “If you trust me like you say you do, you’ll know I wouldn’t ever keep something from you without good reason,” she said quietly, “Believe me, Rupert, this is something I want to tell you, but there are so many other factors in play. The moment I can tell you, I swear I will. Right now isn’t that moment.” She drew in a shaking breath. “I wish it was.”

Giles felt terrible. Here he was guarding his secrets with every intention of keeping them from Jenny for as long as possible, and here she was telling him she wanted, badly, to share her own with him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s difficult to know that there are parts of you I don’t understand.”

“Well, hey, that’s marriage,” said Jenny with a wobbly laugh. “Not exactly a picnic, but…worth the work.” She reached out, squeezing Giles’s hands.

“I do trust you,” said Giles softly. “More than most.”

“I’d hope so,” said Jenny. There was that beautiful smile, tentative and sincere, the one that only he ever brought out.

Giles was tempted, badly, to kiss her again, but the children were outside and waiting. Reluctantly, he dropped her hands. “I’d best get back to the children,” he murmured. “And I—”

Jenny gripped his shirt, pressing her mouth firmly to his. Giles laughed a bit breathlessly, kissing her back.

Things had changed between them. Giles, half-awake in bed that night, was quite comfortable admitting that. Jenny touched him because she wanted to touch him, and kissed him because she liked him, and did the washing up because he did the cooking and she felt like it was only fair. He liked talking to her at night, both of them drowsy and safe in bed, about art and literature and that frankly ridiculous thing that some student in her class had done. Saying that he was smitten with her didn’t quite cover his growing feelings for her—not when everything he found out about her seemed to solidify how very much he cared for her.

It was these feelings that posed a problem. Giles was deeply afraid of losing her if ever she found out how much he had been keeping from her. It was true that she understood secrets, especially with some of her own, but he didn’t at all know how she would feel about the entire extra facet of his personality. To her, he was Rupert, a gentle librarian, but to Buffy and Willow and Xander, he was Giles, a Watcher and a researcher. He couldn’t at all imagine her loving both.

Caring for both.

Giles let out a frightened breath. When had he started wanting Jenny to love him?

Jenny, as always, had fallen asleep first, her head pillowed on his shoulder. It was giving Giles a frustrating amount of time to think—about her, about him, about the impossibilities that he wanted for the both of them. He imagined meeting Jenny the way they were supposed to have met, not roundabout, not married to her in Vegas before they had even learned to like each other. He thought about how they might have met in a staff meeting before school started, and he might have found out she knew more than he had expected, and she might have gotten to know him as a Watcher and a friend all in one. Him asking her out to dinner, their stumbling through a sweet, awkward courtship, them falling in love without secrets between them.

“Jenny,” he said softly.

Jenny stirred against his chest. “Mm?”

“Do you think—would we have been better, had we met the right way round?” Giles asked, his own voice weary. He wished he could fall asleep as easily as her.

Jenny hummed, cuddling into him. “I think I’m happy I’m here,” she whispered.

Something about that made Giles feel better and worse at the same time. He kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes.

The next day brought alarming news.

“Angel’s a vampire?” said Willow disbelievingly.

“I can't believe this is happening,” said Buffy, small and tired. “One minute we were kissing, and the next minute…” She looked plaintively to Giles. “Can a vampire ever be a good person? Couldn't it happen?”

Giles kept on thinking of Jenny’s words. He shouldn’t be staying in a teenage girl’s bedroom. And yet if Angel was truly a threat…how could Jenny possibly put Buffy’s life at risk? “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “By all accounts, a vampire isn't a person at all.”

“But Ms. Calendar let him stay with Buffy!” Willow objected, distressed. “Why would she do that if Angel’s a bad guy?”

If you trust me like you say you do, you’ll know I wouldn’t ever keep something from you without good reason.

“Giles?” Willow turned to him.

There had to be some other explanation. But Jenny knowing about Angel, Jenny knowing about the supernatural, Jenny showing up in Giles’s life and being so distracting, so lovely, so absolutely wonderful—god, he should have known. There was always a catch. “I need to speak to my wife,” said Giles acidly, and hurried past the children, up the stairs, through the hallway, not bothering to look back.

Jenny was setting up her classroom, humming the song that had been on the radio when they’d driven to school that morning. She turned as he stepped into the room; her smile faded at his expression. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Angel is a vampire,” said Giles.

Jenny paled. “Did he hurt Buffy?”

“I think the time for games is very much over, Jenny,” said Giles coldly. “Tell me what you know.”

“There aren’t any—any games, Rupert, and I can’t believe you would think—tell me if he hurt Buffy,” Jenny demanded. “God, please, I—I would have told you if I’d known—” She let out a choked sob, pressing her fingers to her mouth. “She’s so small,” she whispered. “She’s sixteen. I couldn’t tell you, I should have told you—”

“Buffy is fine,” said Giles. Then, “You knew he was a vampire.”

“It’s family stuff,” whispered Jenny. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m an intelligent man.”

Jenny swallowed. She stepped around Giles, shutting the door. “I don’t want to tell you this now,” she said. “I don’t. I want to tell you because I want to tell you, not out of guilt. You know me. You know I wouldn’t do anything if I thought it would hurt you or those kids. He’s a vampire, but it’s—complicated. He isn’t like most of them.”

“If there’s any chance he’ll hurt Buffy, it would help if we had some extra information,” said Giles sharply.

“He—” Jenny stared at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t trust me,” she said quietly.

“Jenny.”

“How is my word not enough on this one?”

“He’s a vampire, Jenny!” Giles shouted. “You can’t just—just speak in vague terms and tell me to follow you blindly! Buffy’s life may very well be at stake, and you’re concerned as to whether or not I trust you enough? You need to get your bloody priorities in order before you start chiding me for not trusting the stranger I drunkenly married!”

The second after he had said it, he realized his mistake like a punch to the gut. He was treating this situation like he didn’t know Jenny, like she hadn’t bandaged his hands and kissed him in a morgue drawer and looped a cross around his neck just to keep him safe. She had given him every reason to trust her, had gone so far as to beg him to understand that she didn’t want to keep secrets from him—she had even been honest enough to admit that she had secrets in the first place. And here he was yelling at her as though he didn’t have a thousand and one secrets of his own.

But Jenny was looking at him, her expression now utterly, purposefully unreadable. “You know what?” she said. “You’re right. I’m some stranger you barely know. You have every fucking reason to think I might want to hurt the kids under my care.” She nodded, a jerky motion. “I get the message loud and clear, Rupert.”

“Jenny,” said Giles weakly. He felt sick to his stomach.

“I think we’re done here,” said Jenny, and turned on her heel, walking out of the classroom without looking back.

Giles sat down, head spinning, on the edge of Jenny’s desk.

“Giles?”

Giles looked up. Willow was standing in the doorway, looking shaken and sad. “How much of that did you hear?” he asked tiredly.

“Um, you guys weren’t exactly quiet,” said Willow uncertainly. “It’s pretty lucky that everybody else is in class. This is my TA period for Ms. Calendar, though, so—”

“Willow,” said Giles.

“I heard drunkenly married,” mumbled Willow. “I covered my ears after that, though, I promise.”

Giles removed his glasses, shakily cleaning them with his handkerchief. He couldn’t quite look at Willow as she sat down next to him. But he couldn’t leave things so ambiguous, especially not if she might tell Buffy or Xander about what she had heard. Someone, at least, deserved the truth. “We met in Las Vegas two weeks before term started,” he said quietly. “We were both laid over there. She swept me off my feet in a bar, we got ridiculously drunk, and we woke up the next day legally bound.”

Willow was silent for a very long time. It took Giles a good two minutes to look up at her, and when he did, she gave him a weak smile. “Just trying to process,” she said.

“I quite understand,” said Giles wryly.

“It’s just…” Willow sighed. “You guys click,” she said. “It’s hard for me to imagine the both of you being complete strangers to each other.”

Giles swallowed. “There are many mistakes I have made in my life,” he said. “I don’t think marrying Jenny was one of them.” This felt too much of an admission. He hastened to change the subject. “But she knew Angel was a vampire, and that—I—I was afraid she was using me. To get to Buffy. Hurt her, somehow.”

“You know she wouldn’t do that!” said Willow, all but affronted.

“I had it in my head that I didn’t know her well enough to make that judgment,” said Giles heavily.

Willow huffed. “That’s crazy talk,” she said.

Giles exhaled. “I’m well aware,” he said, rather unable to look at Willow. The thought that he had caused Jenny needless pain was so much worse than Jenny being some sort of manipulative spy. “I should talk to her,” he said finally.

“Yeah, you should,” said Willow, giving him a momentary smile. “Just give her some space. I think she’s gonna need it.”

Giving Jenny space wasn’t as hard as Giles had imagined it to be. Jenny missed absolutely all of her classes, and when Giles headed to the parking lot at the end of the day, she had already left in her car. Seeing as she’d driven him to the high school, he ended up having to walk home, which gave him an unpleasant amount of time alone with his own thoughts. By the time he finally made it up the porch steps, it was dangerously close to sunset.

Jenny opened the door for him. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “As mad as I am at you, I shouldn’t have left you at school.”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me,” said Giles quietly, shutting the door behind him. He made sure to give Jenny a wide berth; physical space was just as important as emotional space. “I was utterly horrible to you today, Jenny. I don’t know how I can begin to make it up to you.”

“I don’t know either,” said Jenny, staring him down.

Giles shoved his hands into his pockets, mostly to stop his physical compulsion to reach out to Jenny. Though her expression was one of resolute anger, he knew he had hurt her in a way that went beyond fury. “I was afraid,” he said finally. “Of you being too good to be true.”

“Skip the Hallmark-card bullshit, Rupert,” said Jenny flatly. “Tell me something real and I’ll consider—”

“Angry, then, how’s that?” said Giles, humiliation sharpening his words. “I was angry, Jenny, that you didn’t tell me any of this. I hated that you gave me a reason to doubt you—”

“That’s your own damn fault for not listening, then!” Jenny’s eyes flashed. “I told you I wanted to tell you everything, I just needed time!”

“How much time, hmm?” Giles took a step closer, unthinking, then stopped himself. Give her some space. “What happened if we ran out of time and Buffy ended up dead in her bed? If she knew he was a vampire, she’d have never let him in and you know it—”

“This isn’t about Buffy and it never was!” Jenny shouted. “You’re angry that your wife is a complete stranger to you and you don’t know every single fucking thought in her head! Well, guess what, Rupert, that’s what you sign up for when you’re a drunken moron who marries the first pretty girl that gives you the time of day!”

Giles reeled, drawing in a sharp, shaking breath. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said finally.

Jenny froze, mouth half-open. It was clear she’d been expecting him to throw another insult at her, and the absence of it had taken her off guard. No, not off guard—oh, no, oh, Jenny—

Without even thinking about it, Giles took two running steps across the living room and tugged a sobbing Jenny into his arms. Not once had she cried like this in all the time he’d seen her, and the thought that he had caused this was unbearable. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair, close to tears himself. “Jenny, please, I never—never meant to hurt you like this.”

Jenny sobbed something incoherent into his shoulder that sounded very much like an insult, but she was still holding onto him very tightly.

Giles drew in a soft breath, steadied by her presence. “You’re right,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. “This was never about Buffy. I was—afraid, and don’t tell me that that’s Hallmark-card rubbish—”

“I think what I said was Hallmark-card bullshit,” said Jenny. She was still crying, but her words were now at least relatively understandable. “Making our argument a little more G-rated?”

“Bloodbath would be more apropos for what went down in that classroom,” said Giles ruefully. “Though I think we both know that we have the propensity for rather explosive fights.”

Jenny made a noise between a sob and a laugh. “You could say that, yeah,” she mumbled.

“I was afraid,” said Giles again. “That your arrival in my life was somehow not a coincidence, that…that your designs on me were meant to hurt Buffy and myself.”

“Dumbest conspiracy theory ever,” said Jenny flatly, turning her head to rest her cheek on Giles’s chest.

“It’d explain rather well why—” Giles stopped, rather afraid that she could feel his heart pounding. “The more I get to know you, the more I find myself—smitten,” he said. The words didn’t come easily. “And you’re,” he laughed a little tiredly, “quite right that these admissions shouldn’t come tinged with guilt, Jenny. I’d much rather have told you this under happier circumstances. But the fact remains that my feelings for you are rapidly becoming large enough to eclipse any nefarious intent you could have had, and that’s frightening. I am, I am a man of logic, of reason, one who shouldn’t be swayed by—”

Jenny reached up, pressing her finger to his lips. Giles shut his mouth. Lowering her hand, she looked at him steadily, then said, “I believe you, and I get it. But none of that erases what you said to me.”

“I don’t want to erase it,” said Giles quietly. “I want to learn from it. I want you to be angry at me, rightfully so, and I want to prove that I can make things up to you.”

Something in Jenny’s expression softened. “Well, that’s a damn good start,” she murmured, and placed her hands on his shoulders, steadying Giles before she kissed him.

Giles kissed her back for a moment, then pulled away. “You’re not a stranger, you know,” he said earnestly.

“No?” There was clear vulnerability in Jenny’s eyes.

“No,” said Giles softly. “It was cruel of me to say as such, not to mention entirely dishonest. I was afraid, and panicking, but that doesn’t absolve me.”

Jenny swallowed, hard. “I can understand that,” she said. “I’d probably react pretty badly too if I found out you knew stuff about vampires and had been keeping it from me.”

The guilt was like a physical pain in Giles’s stomach, but he couldn’t possibly tell her now. Things were too fragile; it would have to wait just a bit longer. Unable to respond in a way that wasn’t a lie, he kissed her instead, purposefully losing himself in the blissful wonder that was kissing Jenny Calendar—

The phone rang.

“Damn,” Giles muttered, pulling away from Jenny.

“So we’ll save the makeup sex for later, huh?” said Jenny, and gave him a small, wobbly smile.

“Don’t tease,” said Giles, smiling back as he picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Giles, we have a problem,” came Xander’s voice. “It’s Angel.”

All of Jenny’s slowly-returning happiness had dissipated as soon as Giles had told her what had happened to Joyce. She hadn’t said a word during the drive to the hospital, and seemed either unwilling or unable to let go of Giles’s hand. Both, perhaps.

“Do you remember anything, Mom?” Giles heard Buffy saying from a nearby hospital room. Jenny swayed on her feet; he slipped an arm around her waist, steadying her, and she hid her face in his jacket.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

“You don’t know that,” said Jenny flatly.

“No matter what idiocy I said today, you have more than earned my trust,” said Giles quietly. “A thousand times over, Jenny, you have been here for me.”

But Jenny shook her head, pulling back to look at him. “I knew,” she said. “I knew what he was capable of and I just let him—”

“You didn’t let him do a damn thing,” said Giles firmly. “He’s a monster.”

“He’s not,” Jenny burst out. “That’s—that’s the problem, Rupert.”

“What?”

Jenny exhaled. “I’m Romani.”

This was quite literally the last thing Giles had been expecting her to say. “What does that have to do with—” Jenny gave him a look, and he coughed. “Right. Sorry. Do go on.”

“My family, generations ago, lost a daughter to Angelus,” said Jenny, never looking away from Giles. “A favorite daughter. He killed her, and so they cursed him, and I’m here to make sure that he’s still suffering from that curse.”

“All right,” said Giles slowly. This made quite a lot of sense. “But—does this curse mean that he isn’t a danger to others?”

“The curse means that he has a soul,” said Jenny. “His soul. His moral compass, which should tell him right from wrong. The idea was to, to make him feel the guilt of all the terrible things he’d done—keep him suffering for eternity.” She exhaled, unsmiling. “I don’t like that idea,” she said. “It’s endless, pointless vengeance. I wanted to do as little of my job as possible, because he seemed guilty enough as it was.”

“If he had a soul,” said Giles, “then why on earth did he go after Joyce?”

Jenny’s hands tightened around his forearms and her head fell forward. “I don’t know!” she sobbed out. “I was the only one who knew what he was and I should have told you, you’re my husband, we could have stopped this somehow—”

“Jenny,” Giles whispered, gathering her into his arms. “This is in no way your fault. You had no idea this could have happened…” He trailed off, a lump in his throat. “And there I was blaming you for all of it. I’m so—”

“I’m gonna punch you out if you say sorry, Rupert,” said Jenny into his chest.

Startled, Giles laughed. Jenny raised her head, giving him a small, uncertain smile. “Then I’ll withhold my apologies for the time being, Jenny,” he said.

A strange expression crossed Jenny’s face.

“What is it?”

“It’s just—” Jenny bit her lip. “Janna,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“My given name is Janna,” said Jenny. “But it—I—Jenny Calendar’s the lady who married you, you know? I like being her.” She smiled exhaustedly. “You’re the simplest fucking thing in my life, Rupert,” she said. “The rest of it’s a mess, but…” She trailed off.

Giles could think of nothing less simple than being a Watcher’s wife. But the concept of telling Jenny the truth, of possibly hurting her more after she had just been so vulnerable with him, was worse by far than keeping this secret just a little while longer. “I am happy to be whatever you need,” he said instead, and kissed the top of her head.

Jenny snuggled into his arms. “We should tell Buffy,” she murmured.

“I quite agree,” said Giles, and let go of her, just enough for her to take his arm instead. Together, they entered the room, finding Buffy, Willow, and Xander all gathered around Joyce Summers’s bed.

“Ms. Calendar!” Willow perked up. “You’re looking—”

“—kinda awful, actually,” said Xander matter-of-factly. “Finally realize you’re married to the dorkiest man on the planet?”

“I also grade your assignments, Xander,” said Jenny, fixing him with a look that immediately shut him up.

“Are you another doctor?” Joyce asked Giles blearily.

“Oh, um, no, my, my wife and I are faculty at Sunnydale High School,” Giles explained. “We came to, ah, wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Boy, the teachers really do care in this town,” said Joyce, grinning a little.

Buffy’s face was tight. “Get some rest now,” she said, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek and leading Willow and Xander out of the room. Giles and Jenny followed. “She’s going to be okay,” she informed Giles. “They gave her some iron—”

“Buffy, Jenny has some important information about Angel,” said Giles, squeezing Jenny’s hand.

Buffy looked a little surprised. “So you do know him,” she said.

“I do know him,” Jenny confirmed. “And…I think you all deserve to know why.”

Jenny’s explanation led to Buffy deciding that there was a factor she was missing regarding Angel’s attack on her mother, which led to Giles asking a few more questions about the friend who Joyce had let into the house. This in turn revealed that it was Darla who had attacked Buffy’s mother, and so Buffy went after Darla, and Angel ended up helping Buffy finally take Darla down.

Giles found out about Darla’s death much, much later. He had instructed Buffy to take the night off, as Darla clearly wanted Buffy to go after Angel. He would later discover that Buffy had completely disregarded his words, as always, but currently, he was carefully shepherding Jenny into their house, then shutting the door behind him, hanging his coat on the coat tree by the door. “I’m sorry about the direction tonight took,” he said.

Jenny didn’t answer. Without a word, she grasped at his sleeve, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Jenny?”

“You didn’t have to be as kind as you were,” she said, and gave him a small, wobbly smile.

“You’re giving me much too much credit,” said Giles wryly. “If you’ll recall, I was completely horrible to you when first I found out—”

Jenny shook her head. “You didn’t have all the facts,” she said. “And now here you are with all of them, and you’re taking them in stride. I…” She trailed off. “You’re almost too good to be true,” she said. “I feel like there’s got to be some catch here, but there isn’t. There’s just you.”

Her fingers were drawing quiet, deliberate circles against the skin of his wrist, and the way she was looking at him brought back a sudden flash of memory—

“—have you heard that thing about annulments?” his new wife was saying, eyes half-lidded.

“Can’t recall,” said Giles, and took a sip of the horribly fruity drink from the hotel room mini-bar. It was the last alcoholic beverage left, or he most likely wouldn’t be drinking it at all.

“That thing where if you don’t consummate the marriage, it can be annulled like—” she snapped her fingers, “—that?”

“Don’t think that’s how it works,” Giles corrected, attempting to sound as dignified as possible even through his inebriation. “It’s more…more like, if a marriage is carried out while one ‘r both of the participants are…are unsound of body or mind—”

Jenny straddled his lap and kissed him. In his enthusiasm to return the kiss, Giles spilled the fruity drink all over the bedsheets—

“—come here,” Giles whispered, and kissed her. Jenny made a soft, shaky noise against his mouth and kissed him back—

—the sheets would have to be changed, he was certain, though he felt ridiculous for fixating on such a thing when he was married, for the first time ever, and wasn’t it romantic, meeting his wife and knowing right off that she was the one he wanted to be with? Marrying her because he didn’t want to waste a day? Jenny pushed at his shoulders until he’d fallen back into the pillows, and then he heard a sound like tearing fabric.

“Shit,” she laughed, pulling back, and Giles saw that the purple dress had ripped. “Okay, okay, hold on, I need to—”

“Take it off,” Giles suggested.

“Mmm, sounds good,” Jenny agreed—

“—only I wouldn’t want to pressure you into anything you aren’t ready for,” Giles murmured, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.

Jenny laughed softly. “Are you kidding?” she whispered. “Even after you found out I’m in Sunnydale watching a vampire with a soul, you’re still worrying about me? I can handle the decisions I make, Rupert. Kiss me.”

“No decision has been overtly made, Jenny,” Giles reminded her gently. “I did mean what I say about consent being important in this situation.”

Jenny smiled a little. “I want to sleep with you,” she said softly. “I want to be close to you.”

Giles studied Jenny, a lump in his throat. He was more than aware that Jenny’s vulnerability was something he hadn’t truly earned. Taking advantage of it under false pretenses didn’t feel right, no matter how very deeply he returned her feelings. The truth had to come out now, before they became even closer. “Jenny,” he began. “I have to tell you—”

Jenny exhaled, almost a laugh. “Whatever it is,” she said, “can it please wait? I’ve wanted—I want this. And I’m not stupid, Rupert, I know there’s still gonna be stuff I don’t know about you. That’s okay. I just wanna be with you right now.”

Giles wavered—

—his hands fluttered nervously to rest at her waist, gentle and careful. Out of the dress, she looked so much smaller, less polished and perfect. He felt as though he might hurt her if he wasn’t paying enough attention.

“I’m not a china doll, husband,” she said, trying out the word with a giggle. “Husband. God. Not gonna get used to that any time soon.”

“Do you regret it?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “No.”

His hands gripped her waist as he kissed her—

—and kissed her, and kissed her, and carried her into the bedroom, overbalancing in the doorway so that they half-fell onto the bed. There was a sudden sense of urgency to Jenny’s kisses, one that Giles could understand. Their connection still felt so tenuous, especially after how easily he had been able to believe that there might be some—

“Catch,” he realized, and laughed a little.

“Huh?” Jenny blinked at him, moving up to lean back against the headboard. Her disheveled hair and half-unbuttoned blouse were bringing back much more explicit memories of their wedding night.

“I find it so hard to believe that you can just be you,” said Giles softly. “Much as you feel like there has to be a catch for me just being me. The likelihood of me marrying someone so, so kind, so brave, not just a belligerent stranger who microwaves plastic—”

“Now that’s the way I want people to describe me all the time,” said Jenny, and while her words were playful, her smile was something more akin to loving. “Come here, Rupert.”

“Yes, dear,” said Giles, a low purr, and her answering shiver was delicious as he moved up the bed to press her into the pillows.

[jennycalendar]

regarding honor and honesty in the workplace (22/42)

read it on ao3!

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT WE HAVE AN END NUMBER???????? CRAZY??????????? anyway i haven’t decided on an update schedule; am thinking i’m gonna do it every other day a la it’s a family affair because i’m impatient and it’s summer.

warning for some violence (as in a gun is shot this chapter)

from the personal files of Jenny Calendar:

…nvoi;awhfdon;vb lkasf;owahraobvj c mn,asdlfhl2? hsldk;fhslvnabdk sbioa;iew vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv (continues for 17 pages)

“Did you fall asleep on your keyboard?” Cordelia sounded wildly amused by this. Gently, she tugged a barely-awake Jenny away from the computer, carefully shutting the laptop lid. “C’mon, sleepy. Gala’s in three hours and we’ve got a whole lot of prep to do.”

“Ugh,” said Jenny, who didn’t really want to be awake.

“Ugh all you want,” said Cordelia unsympathetically, “doesn’t change the fact that your makeup needs a lot of touching up when you fall asleep on your computer, not to mention your hair—” She sat Jenny down in front of an antique vanity by the window and undid the sloppy twist holding Jenny’s hair away from her face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have plenty of practice untangling Fred’s hair. Sometimes I gel Angel’s, too, when he’s not being a big baby about it.” She took out a fine-toothed comb and began to work carefully at the tangles.

All of a sudden, Jenny was thinking about Rupert, and the gentle, deliberate way he combed out her hair, and how horrible she’d been to him when she called him that night. Maybe it wasn’t just her prioritization of the job that had had him so upset. Maybe whatever it was that was wrong between them was something that couldn’t be fixed by catching Glorificus. Maybe—

“You’re brooding,” said Cordelia. “Why?”

Jenny sighed. “I made an impulse decision last night,” she said, “and—and maybe a detective with a new girlfriend can afford to do that, but someone with a family can’t just pack up and run away when the going gets tough.”

Cordelia considered this, then said, “You know, Angel ran off last year and slept with Darla. There was a bunch of, um, stuff going on in his life,” here she blushed in a strange way that seemed to signify she might have been involved in some of that stuff, “and Wolfram and Hart had brought her back into the country just to screw around with his head, and he just ditched us and slept with her and spent the next month or so hiding from us because he felt so bad about it. But he came back.”

“Okay,” said Jenny, not sure how this was supposed to help.

“My point,” said Cordelia, tapping Jenny’s shoulder so that she could get to the tangled mess of hair at the base of her neck, “is that—there really isn’t any family in it with people who don’t make dumb mistakes, you know? Family is about people who choose to stick together even through the messy parts. And honestly, it seems like right now, you’ve hit a messy part in a family you’ve made yourself. Which is scary, ‘cause you don’t have blood to fall back on as a reason for being together—”

“Great pep talk,” said Jenny somewhat sourly.

“I’m not done,” said Cordelia, her voice softening. “Look, I saw the way Giles looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking. Maybe you’re not ready to figure out what’s going on between the two of you, but I think you know that whatever you guys have isn’t something that’s gonna be thrown away over one argument.”

“It was a really awful argument,” said Jenny.

Cordelia ran the comb through Jenny’s hair one last time, then stood up, crossing the room to pick up the dress from where Jenny had carefully set it down on the dresser. “Angel went off and slept with Darla,” she said, “and this was almost right after he and I kissed for the first time. So I’m kinda freaking as is, and then he disappears for a month, and when he comes back he opens with ‘guess what? I slept with Darla!’ Like, he said it in an Angel way, but still. Got the message across.” She smiled a little, then, handing the dress very carefully to Jenny. “We’ve been dating since March of last year,” she said. “He got me a bunch of flowers last week and I made him a really bad dinner. I’m kinda crazy about him. And I think what I’m trying to tell you is that even the worst set of circumstances ever isn’t gonna shake up a relationship built on mutual trust and respect.”

Jenny smiled a little. “Okay,” she said. “That’s not too bad of a pep talk.”

“Yeah, I was building it up.” Cordelia leaned down to amicably ruffle Jenny’s hair. “I’m gonna go change in the bathroom, okay? Let me know when you’re changed and I’ll come out and do your makeup—maybe curl your hair a little around the edges so it can be all fancy.” She turned, picking up a slightly crumpled dark green dress from the floor, and headed into the bathroom.

Jenny stood up and took a look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was soft and very nicely combed (thanks, Cordelia), she didn’t look quite as miserable or sleep-deprived as she’d felt the day before, and—Cordelia was right. Three years of love and trust didn’t vanish with one huge argument, and Jenny knew Rupert well enough to know that he was probably just as hurt as she was by the way that conversation had gone. She was good at being happy around him—she was just going to have to learn how to become just as good at making amends.

She pulled the dress carefully over her head, then twirled in the mirror, watching the long skirt flare out. Compulsively, she smoothed down her hair, trying to look like someone part of a covert investigation. Detectives usually looked perfectly polished, didn’t they? Unreadable. Poised. Like Lilah.

Belatedly, she realized that this was the first time since waking up that Lilah had crossed her mind.

“Hey, you ready yet?” Cordelia called from the bathroom.

Jenny swallowed, smiled, then said, “Yeah.”

The gala was abuzz with activity when they entered, couples waltzing to the music and eating at tables set up in the Hyperion’s lavish ballroom. They slipped in largely unnoticed with a group of high-society fashion designers, at which point Wesley set up a hidden camera by the buffet table, Angel started a very awkward conversation with one of the waiters to gather intel, and Cordelia made a beeline for a nervous-looking Fred.

Jenny had had no idea that Fred’s investigative work had landed her with Angel and his crew, and definitely hadn’t expected to see her here of all places. She debated following, realized that that meant she would have to answer questions about why Rupert wasn’t working with her, decided she didn’t want to have that conversation, and settled for standing with Angel as he continued to struggle through the basics of social interaction. Why anyone would date this man, let alone frame Rupert as a revenge act to get him back, she was having trouble figuring out.

“Yeah, ‘cause—you work here,” Angel was saying, in a way that somehow managed to be both grave and uncomfortable. “Here in this place. Where you might have seen—”

“What my friend is trying to say,” said Jenny, attempting to mimic the cool, confident tone Lilah had used when entering her office, “is that he and I are both looking for a friend of ours who might be attending this gala. Does the name Glorificus ring any bells to you?”

“What she said,” said Angel somewhat helplessly.

The waiter gave them both a somewhat bemused look, then answered, “I don’t know about Glorificus, but a lady named Glory did slip one of my friends twenty bucks to save her a seat at one of those fancy tables. She’s not due down for another ten minutes, though.”

“Thank you so much,” said Jenny brightly, taking Angel’s arm and steering him towards the buffet table. “What was that?” she asked, trying her hardest not to laugh.

Angel shot her an injured look. “Cordelia was supposed to do the sweet-talking,” he said. “That’s why she’s over there checking in with Fred. I just wanted to—you know. Help out a little extra.”

He really was sweet, even if it was in a hapless-puppy sort of way. Jenny patted Angel’s arm and let go. “Well, you tried,” she said, and badly swallowed a giggle as Angel rolled his eyes. “So what do we do for the next ten minutes?”

“Mingle, I guess,” said Angel, sounding like he’d rather do anything but.

“Sounds fun,” said Jenny, and snagged a glass of champagne from another passing waiter, taking a long sip. To Angel, she added, “Do I look sophisticated?”

“Very,” said Rupert quietly.

Jenny, shocked, jerked her arm up, splashing the contents of her glass in Angel’s face. Angel stumbled backwards into the wall, mopping at his face with the sleeve of his rental tux and muttering about how people with unresolved issues shouldn’t always go to him all the time and why couldn’t he just stay dry at parties.

“Um,” said Rupert, and took Jenny’s hand in his, tugging gently until she was all the way in his arms. Jenny’s heart was hammering in her chest as he smoothly spun her onto the dance floor, leading her perfectly in time with the music. It was odd, juxtaposed with the nervous way he was looking at her.

“How did you—” she began.

“Wolfram and Hart knows that Angel Investigations is going after Glorificus,” said Rupert quietly. “Lilah didn’t exactly specify how they know, but from that I rather suspected you might be helping them.”

“Wolfram and Hart—”

“Lilah and I are here to warn them,” Rupert explained awkwardly, “and—and to apologize to you, after. Lilah said she’d handle the first bit if I could handle the second—something about me, um, knowing you—for longer.”

Jenny sniffled, then swallowed, only distantly noticing the way she’d wound an arm around Rupert’s neck. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

Rupert looked utterly bemused. “What on earth do you have to be sorry for?” he asked. “I was the one who—”

Jenny shook her head. “No, I—you were right,” she said. “I’ve been unreliable and flighty and I started saying ridiculous stuff about you being my associatejust so I could feel better about the way I treated you. You’re not—you’re more than family to—you’re everything to me, Rupert,” and all of a sudden she wanted to snatch her words out of the air and take them back.

Rupert very abruptly stopped leading them in a waltz. “Everything?” he said shakily. His hand, which had been resting innocuously on Jenny’s waist, skimmed her shoulder and her neck to brush its thumb almost unconsciously against her cheek.

Jenny couldn’t say anything. Something was beginning to finally piece itself together in her brain, something that she should have figured out long ago. Why she hated it when Rupert hung up first, why she didn’t like that things were changing, why she’d ever so secretly looked for signs that Rupert was reacting badly to the first person Jenny had actively pursued—

Rupert’s hand tucked a strand of hair very quietly behind her ear.

Jenny’s eyes flitted to his mouth, lips parted.

It was a flurry of movement behind Rupert that shattered the moment, bringing Jenny back into herself. Angel was being toweled off by a wildly amused Cordelia, who was gesticulating playfully as she teased him.

“Jenny,” said Rupert. “Jenny?”

Jenny pulled back, staring up at him, and ran.

from the personal files of Jenny Calendar (hypothetical draft for when she’s typing one tonight, probably):

fuck fuck motherfucking fuck how did i not figure out all these years that i’ve been in love with him the whole fucking time?

Jenny didn’t really think the whole running thing through. She knew Rupert was going to come after her, and she knew at some point she was going to have to figure out what exactly being in love with Rupert would do to their personal relationship, to their agency, to Lilah, to the kids, to every single person involved in their life. Everything she’d built around her had hinged on the stable constancy of her not knowing that she was in love with Rupert, and now that she knew—god, the way she felt about him was too deep and too painful to just sweep under the rug for both of their sakes.

And maybe he was in love with her too, but—what would that do? How would they even work as a couple? Jenny hadn’t felt this way about anyone before, hadn’t willingly let herself fall in love. She’d been a programmer thinking only about learning as much as she could, and then she’d been a private detective focused on helping other people, and then she’d been a single mom. There had never been any time for thinking about sharing her life with someone in the sweepingly romantic sense—she didn’t even really think she was built for those types of feelings.

She only became aware of her surroundings when she became short of breath, at which point she took the nearest exit out of the maze of hallways and found herself in a back alley. Somehow, she’d ended up right where food deliveries were made to the hotel—blessedly empty, now, with the party in full swing. Gasping, Jenny slumped against the wall, then buried her face in her hands.

The sound of high heels echoed in the alley. Slowly, Jenny looked up. Lilah was standing there, expression almost purposefully blank. Strangely, she wasn’t making any sort of effort to come any closer, leaving a distance of about six feet between them. “Lilah,” said Jenny, trying to look like someone who wasn’t a total fucking disaster. “Listen—I’m—I’m sorry. That I’m such a damn mess.”

Lilah just looked at her. There was a strange detachment to the way Lilah was looking at her, one that had all of Jenny’s detective senses on full alert—but Jenny Calendar, the person underneath the years of experience, was too sad and confused to really think about things critically. “Are you okay?” Jenny asked, and sniffled, wiping at her eyes. God, Cordelia really did pick quality makeup—none of her eyeliner had smudged even slightly. “You seemed—pretty drunk, last I saw you.”

Lilah smiled thinly. Then, in a slow, practiced motion, she took a delicate revolver out of her pocket and pointed it at Jenny.

Something shattered and broke in Jenny, in that moment, looking at someone she had let herself trust so completely. She felt as though she was missing something crucial, some puzzle-piece precious bit of information that might explain why Lilah was holding the gun with such steady sureness. “Lilah,” she said. Not pleading, exactly, but—something close to it.

Lilah’s smile quivered, ever so slightly. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

And—

There was a flurry of motion in that one horrifying moment, one that took Jenny and Lilah both aback. Lilah hadn’t known that Jenny was being followed, and Jenny—Jenny hadn’t once guessed that Rupert had been right on her heels, close enough to slip through the alley doors, take stock of the situation, and shove himself in front of Jenny exactly as Lilah pulled the trigger.

[jennycalendar]

she’s your destiny

ao3

Buffy sighs, looking like she doesn’t want to be jealous but is jealous anyway. “Willow,” she says, “do you think someone can be your soulmate but you aren’t theirs?”

“There are a few rare cases,” says Giles. “My—” He makes a strange face, then says, “Someone I dated, back in college, they had my initials on their arm, but I didn’t have theirs.”

“Let me guess,” says Buffy very seriously. “Your real soulmate is books.”

i missed writing SO MUCH last week that i churned out nearly 10k words of buffy/willow & jenny/giles as soon as my laptop was once again functional. this is honestly one of the best things i’ve written (born of me reading a soulmate au fic, getting annoyed w the concept of soulmate aus, and writing....a soulmate au fic) and i am so so proud of it.

“It’s sparkly!” says Willow happily, rolling up her sleeve to show Ms. Calendar the outside of her upper arm. “And the initials are TM! Which, you know, I don’t know anyone with those initials or anything like that, but I’ve got the whole rest of my life to find him.”

“That’s great,” says Jenny, feeling the familiar weariness that shows up whenever she sees a kid like Willow getting all excited about her soulmate. “Only—Willow, you know that those don’t always mean anything, right?”

Willow frowns, then shakes her head. “No offense, Ms. Calendar,” she says, “but pretty much every couple ever has ended up with their true-blue soulmate. There isn’t a single case of non-soulmate-dating that hasn’t ended in total disaster, a-and I kinda did my history report on soulmates last year so I would definitely know.”

She looks nervous, but still resolute, and Jenny feels a tired sympathy; this is a kid who definitely needs to believe that there’s someone out there in the world for her. It’s that fact that makes her say, “You’re right, Willow,” even though she doesn’t really believe it; what kind of person would she be if she crushed a girl’s spirit this young?

Buffy Summers sticks her head into the classroom. She’s one of the kids who doesn’t have a soulmate mark yet, and she seems almost determinedly unbothered by it, keeping her arms bare as if daring anyone to comment on the lack of ink. “Hi, Ms. Calendar,” she says obligingly, then waves to Willow, adding, “Giles is calling an emergency—uh—library TA meeting. Or something.”

“Oh, um—” Willow gives Jenny an apologetic smile as she moves to follow Buffy. “Sorry I can’t stay and talk more,” she says reluctantly.

“No, it’s cool, sweetie,” says Jenny easily. “No pressure. Stop by after school and I’ll help you with that program you’re writing, okay?”

Willow’s face lights up. “Okay!” she chirps, and all but skips out of the classroom, throwing a furtively delighted look back over her shoulder at Jenny without seeming all that aware of herself.

Left alone, Jenny rolls up the sleeve of her sweater and looks down at her own soulmate mark. A, it reads, for Angelus.

Angel’s soulmate mark is a bright pink BAS, with lots of little flowers and hearts and stakes and things like that. When Xander saw Angel’s mark, his face curled up like spoiled milk and then he started talking really loudly about how it made sense that Angel’s soulmate mark was only one letter short of BS because Angel himself was not too far from BS and someone should just stake Angel already. Personally, Willow thinks Xander’s being an idiot.

“My soulmate mark showed up,” she tells Giles shyly, flipping her arm over and pushing up her sweater sleeve a little to show him the sparkly-happy blue-grey TM on her arm. “See? Sparkly!”

“That’s very nice, Willow,” says Giles, giving her a small, soft smile. “I’m sure they’re an absolutely remarkable person.”

Buffy sighs, looking like she doesn’t want to be jealous but is jealous anyway. “Willow,” she says, “do you think someone can be your soulmate but you aren’t theirs?”

“There are a few rare cases,” says Giles. “My—” He makes a strange face, then says, “Someone I dated, back in college, they had my initials on their arm, but I didn’t have theirs.”

“Let me guess,” says Buffy very seriously. “Your real soulmate is books.”

Giles smirks a little bitterly. “Quite right,” he says.

“What do you think TM is like?” Willow asks Xander.

Xander seems to put some serious thought into the question. Finally, he says, “I’d say really kind. I think you like people who are really kind.”

“I bet he’s a hottie,” Buffy adds helpfully. “Like, ten times hotter than Angel. Maybe even twenty, ‘cause Willow, you’re a total catch.”

Willow feels that warm, blushy feeling she always gets when Buffy compliments her. “Yeah?” she says.

“Definitely,” says Buffy emphatically.

Giles places a stack of books down in the center of the table. “Unfortunately,” he says, “there happen to be some actual supernatural events that demand our attention much more than this conversation. Willow, Xander, you’ll help me with research tonight?”

“Oh, no, I was going to talk to Ms. Calendar!” Willow half-whines. At Giles’s surprised look, she amends, “I mean, I’ll come by a little later, but—Giles, I really wanna talk to her about soulmates, she keeps on saying that the whole concept doesn’t mean anything and I want to know why she thinks that.”

“Hmm,” says Giles somewhat dismissively, and makes That Face that he does whenever anyone brings up Ms. Calendar and it turns out she’s actually said something that he agrees with. Sort of a mixture of annoyed and thoughtful.

“Giles,” says Willow, struck by a sudden thought, “do you think soulmates mean anything?”

Giles is quiet for about five seconds (possibly because, even after that whole demon-in-the-Internet thing, Giles still doesn’t seem to really like agreeing with Ms. Calendar) before he finally says, “I’m not entirely sure.”

Xander doesn’t look surprised by this. “Makes sense,” he says. “You don’t seem like the type to go all gaga over someone just because they’ve got your name on their arm or whatever.”

“Xander, shut up,” says Buffy irritably. “Giles—how come you’re not sure? There’s, like, a bunch of data that supports the fact that only soulmates have happy marriages. My parents weren’t soulmates, and look what happened to them.”

Giles hesitates, then says, “It’s simply not a concept that makes a lot of sense to me,” in the sort of way that indicates that he doesn’t really want to say much else about it.

Willow takes the hint. “I’ll definitely stop by later to help, Giles,” she says, changing the subject as smoothly as she can.

“Thank you,” says Giles, handing Buffy a book. “Buffy, you’re planning on patrolling tonight?”

Willow takes this opportunity to go back to looking at her soulmate mark. She tries to imagine TM—Thomas Matthews, maybe, or Timothy MacPherson—and decides that his hair will probably be the same color as Buffy’s, because Buffy’s hair glows under the moonlight and Willow kind of wants to have a soulmate with soft blonde hair like that. Maybe he’ll have eyes like Ms. Calendar, all big and soft and chocolaty brown—and, yeah, Willow’s thinking about girls when she thinks about her soulmate, but girls are generally prettier than boys. It’s purely for planning purposes.

Giles’s soulmate mark is W, for Watcher, and appeared when he was ten years old. It’s a little-known fact that soulmate marks aren’t always romantic, and an even lesser-known fact that oftentimes, when a person is very closely tied to supernatural forces or destiny or something like that, their soulmate mark will change. A very long time ago, Giles’s soulmate mark said something else, but it changed when he was ten and it’s stayed a stubborn W ever since.

He and Ethan had tried to cut it off when he was twenty-one and they were both high off of Eyghon. The whole thing ended with Giles in the hospital, staring down at the black W still visible through the wound. Soulmate marks go down to the bone.

TM, Willow writes into the line of code, and giggles when Ms. Calendar wiggles her eyebrows significantly. Quickly, she deletes it. “It’s not part of the code,” she explains, “I just—I like looking at it.”

“I can see why,” says Ms. Calendar, smiling slightly. “So, who do you think they’re going to be?”

“He,” says Willow decisively, feeling a strange jump in her stomach.

But Ms. Calendar shakes her head. “Not necessarily,” she says. “Not always.”

Willow blinks, feeling startled and strangely happy for a reason she doesn’t entirely understand. “Why not always?” she says, half-hopeful.

Ms. Calendar turns from her own computer and gives Willow this little smile like she knows exactly what Willow’s looking for. “Well,” she says, drawing out the word, “you could fall in love with a girl, someday. That’d be okay.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Willow reflexively.

“And that’s okay too,” says Ms. Calendar, and she’s looking at Willow in the same way Willow’s always wanted her mom to look at her. Like Willow’s—not perfect, not flawless, but enough, just as she is.

There’s a still, soft moment between them that makes Willow wish she hadn’t promised Giles that she would come in and research. She wants to stay in this classroom with Ms. Calendar and with a half-unspoken possibility of something that’s all hers.

“My soulmate,” says Willow, “they’ll love me, right?”

“That’s what soulmates are,” says Ms. Calendar, gentle and emphatic. “They’ll love the hell out of you, Willow.” Her smile twists a little, then, and her hand rubs at a spot on her upper arm that’s always covered by a sweater or a button-down or a leather jacket.

Willow wants to ask what Ms. Calendar’s soulmate mark is, but doesn’t know if she can, and doesn’t know if she wants to know. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem like it makes Ms. Calendar all that happy. “I think I have to go,” she says reluctantly. “I’m supposed to be helping Giles in the library. He’s got a lot of work that he needs done tonight.”

“Skip it,” says Ms. Calendar dismissively, and laughs affectionately at Willow’s affronted expression. “I’m joking,” she says, “I know you’ve got the best work ethic around. Get some sleep tomorrow, all right? You’ve been looking a little run-down lately.”

Willow had gotten home at one in the morning last night and her mom hadn’t even noticed when she came down to breakfast thirty minutes late. Her parents are somewhat of the mind that a capable girl like her should learn how to make her own choices, and that as long as she’s not dating around or partying hard, they’re okay with whatever she does. Which is—it’s okay, it really is, but sometimes Willow wishes that it didn’t mean so much when her computer science teacher wants her to get some sleep.

“Thanks,” says Willow quietly, getting up from her desk and crossing the room. Ms. Calendar stands up, smiling awkwardly, and opens the door for her. “Hey, um, you should get some sleep too,” Willow adds over her shoulder, because she wants to be able to make Ms. Calendar feel just as special.

Ms. Calendar’s smile softens. “Yeah, okay,” she says, and steps back, letting the door swing shut.

Willow enters the library to find Giles and Xander in the middle of yet another argument regarding Xander’s habit of researching with snacks in hand, and the fact that Giles does it all the time, so why can’t Xander, and the fact that Giles is an adult and these are all Giles’s books anyway. She clears her throat, then announces to the room, “Ms. Calendar says I should be getting more sleep.”

Giles stops mid-argument and smiles a little, as if taken by surprise. “I expect she’s right,” he says.

“Whoa,” says Xander. “Can we get that on recording? Honestly, that kind of thing should make the news. Extra, extra, Giles just said that he expects Ms. Calendar was right—”

“Good lord, Xander,” says Giles irritably, “are you attempting to make an Olympic sport of aggravating me?”

Willow sits down at the table and takes out a powdered donut (Giles is partial to the jellies, and now doesn’t seem like the time to upset him further), munching on it quietly and feeling a consistent warm-happy glow. There’s something profoundly wonderful about today, she thinks, something that extends beyond soulmates and Ms. Calendar. There’s something comforting in certainty.

Buffy’s soulmate mark appeared on the inside of her lower arm when she was twelve, and then it disappeared and moved to the palm of her hand with a new, solitary letter when she was fourteen, and then it vanished completely when she was Called and it hasn’t come back since. But the first letters, the one that she thinks matter the most, those were WDR, and she thinks a lot about that, because when she was fourteen she met Tyler and decided that by sheer force of will she would change her soulmate mark.

Turns out, if you wish hard enough and long enough, your soulmate mark will become something else. The letter on her hand wasn’t anything to do with Tyler, though; it was S for Slayer. Sort of like a premonition. Buffy never wanted to be the Slayer, though, so she guesses that the universe gave up on trying to prove that the Slayer was all that the rest of her life would ever be.

Buffy still thinks about that WDR a lot. She thinks about Angel and his hearts-and-stakes soulmate mark, the one he tried to hide from her and wasn’t all that great at doing. She thinks about Willow’s big round eyes and soft, shy smile, and she feels hopelessly lost.

It might have been a different WDR, Buffy thinks. It could have been someone else that would have won over normal non-Slayer Buffy Summers. And Slayer Buffy Summers is very clearly supposed to be falling for vampire-with-a-soul Angel—he’s got his name on her arm, for God’s sake.

But Buffy thinks about that WDR a lot, written in the same shade of purple as Willow’s favorite pen. She thinks that whoever that WDR was, Willow or not, they were who she was supposed to be with before she got Called. She wants it to come back, because then she might be brave enough to tell herself that Willow Danielle Rosenberg can be her destiny.

Not that it matters now, when Willow’s got some TM on her arm like she’s been trademarked by her soulmate. Buffy hopes that Willow will keep on wearing long sleeves.

Ms. Calendar sits down next to Giles at the staff meeting and places a paper cup of tea down in front of him. “It’s bad and American,” she says, “but it might give you a little bit of a caffeine hit. That’s probably good, right?”

“Presumably,” says Giles, giving her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Ms. Calendar looks surprised, then smiles back. “Sure,” she says, and takes a sip of her own coffee.

Giles realizes very abruptly that this is the first time he’s sat next to someone during a staff meeting, which immediately devolves into him trying to find some topic of small talk to bring up to Ms. Calendar, who could, quite possibly, become some kind of an actual adult friend, which isn’t something he’s had in a very long time—

“Your face kinda looks like it’s going through five different stages of panic,” comments Ms. Calendar, looking mildly interested.

“Thank you,” says Giles awkwardly.

Ms. Calendar very clearly bites back a laugh. “Is this how you’re going to act when I’m nice to you?” she says. “Because honestly, I really like fighting with you, so if I’m going to have to spur you into action by telling you how computers are always going to trump books—”

“It’s rather, um, discomfiting to feel—positively—towards you,” Giles finally manages. “Especially after a good few months of outright animosity. It’s quite the tonal shift.”

Ms. Calendar laughs out loud. “Oh my god,” she says, “I think we’re actually in agreement. Do you know how weird it is to see you in the hall and not exchange the usual heatedly angry stares? Remember that one time you walked into a locker door because you were glaring at me too hard and didn’t notice that senior opening her locker in a hurry?”

Giles finds himself smiling, genuinely; it’s an odd feeling. “I think I sprained my dignity quite badly that day,” he says, “though it wasn’t quite as entertaining as you over-pouring your coffee while you were shouting at me across the faculty room a few weeks ago.”

“I burned my hand, you insensitive jerk,” says Ms. Calendar, who’s now outright grinning. “And anyway—” She stops, then stares, eyes wide. Giles follows her gaze to his right wrist, where his sleeve has slipped ever so slightly to reveal the W he only sort of bothers trying to hide.

“Oh,” he says uncomfortably. He doesn’t like this sort of conversation. Not a lot of people have soulmate marks that are only one letter, and most people are incredibly curious as to why Giles’s soulmate is only named W. Giles would come up with a lie, but he doesn’t want to shatter the tentative peace between him and Ms. Calendar, and—

“What was it before it was W?” asks Ms. Calendar softly.

Giles looks up, startled. “I’m sorry?”

Ms. Calendar blushes, looking somewhat uncomfortable in her compassion. “Your soulmate,” she says. “Their name isn’t just one letter. That kind of thing is a responsibility.” Quietly, she rolls up her sleeve, flipping her left wrist out to face him. Written in old-fashioned cursive is a blood-red A.

“Oh,” says Giles again, this time in a very different tone of voice. “So—”

“It’s a secret,” says Ms. Calendar, with the same kind of bitterness that Giles feels whenever he looks at his inky W. “And I’m guessing yours is too?”

“Yes,” says Giles, and his hand moves, almost of its own volition, to trace the A on Ms. Calendar’s wrist. Her eyelashes flutter at his touch, and she doesn’t break his gaze, just looks at him with soft, steady, dark eyes.

In her notebook, Buffy doodles the WDR that had once been on her arm, because it was only there for a year but she still remembers its soft purple curlicues. It’s in Willow’s handwriting, she realizes, right down to the purple pen and the way the W’s points are perfect forty-five degree angles. She can’t replicate it perfectly, though, and she wishes she’d thought to take a picture of it or something instead of thinking that it’d always stay there.

Maybe the reason that Willow doesn’t have Buffy’s initials on her arm is because Buffy had fucked everything up by becoming a Vampire Slayer. Maybe love and destiny don’t mix.

“Being a Vampire Slayer sucks,” Buffy says to Willow as they walk to class. “Pun absolutely intended.”

Willow giggles. She’s wearing a blue-grey button-down the same color as her soulmate mark with sleeves that end at her elbow, and she keeps on running her fingers along the soft sparkly curve of the T. Five girls have congratulated her in the last hour alone, including a very sarcastic Cordelia, but Willow had just grinned sunshine-bright and kept walking. “You’ve got Angel, though,” she says. “That’s pretty awesome, isn’t it?”

“I mean—” Buffy exhales. “It feels like he’s made up his mind about the whole soulmate thing before I ever got the chance to,” she says. “He told me he had that mark way back when he was human, and that was before I was even born.”

“Oh, that’s so romantic!” Willow gasps. “Gosh, I wish I had a soulmate like that.” She giggles again. “I guess I’ll get to find out someday now, huh?”

Buffy hates looking at Willow, now, because Willow’s this soft-blooming sunflower all of a sudden and Buffy wants to be the cause instead of the witness. “Yeah,” she says. Then, “You ever think about how cool it would be without all this soulmate junk cluttering up everyone’s lives? You could just date anyone, do anything—”

Willow’s smile fades into something sympathetic and a little sad. She slips her hand into Buffy’s, interlacing their fingers in that shy-comforting way that makes Buffy feel all warm and tingly. “I mean,” she says, “I feel a little better, knowing that there’s someone for me out there, but it’s also kinda scary to know that you’ve only ever got one shot at love.���

“Destiny’s a bitch,” says Buffy decisively.

Willow nods. “It really, really is,” she says knowingly, but Buffy sees her other hand resting lovingly on her soulmate mark. “Hey, you feel like going Bronzing tonight?”

“Angel might be there,” says Buffy somewhat reluctantly. She likes Angel, she does, but the fact of the matter is that she likes Willow one hell of a lot more than some cryptic vampire-with-a-soul who never really gives her a straight answer. “And we still can’t be together—”

“Nothing stops true love,” says Willow earnestly, squeezing Buffy’s hand before she lets go. “Oh—I have math and you have English, I just remembered,” she says sadly. “You know, next semester, we’re going to have to coordinate our schedules for real.”

“Yeah, totally,” says Buffy, managing a smile. “English is so boring without you to copy off of.”

“Without me to help you,” Willow corrects reprovingly, but she’s grinning too as she enters the math classroom. Buffy hesitates, thinking, then heads not towards the English classroom, but back towards the library.

Giles is reading a book on programming. Buffy, startled, debates whether or not to make a teasing comment about Ms. Calendar (the hot gossip of the day is that some freshman kid saw them holding hands), but decides instead to say, “Giles, what’s your soulmate mark?”

Giles looks up, surprised. “Is that the hot topic of the day?” he says. “Jenny and I were just—” He turns a very interesting shade of pink and then says in a strangled voice, “That is. Ms. Calendar.”

“Oh my god, is Ms. Calendar your soulmate?” Buffy demands, not sure whether to be amused or horrified. “You two would create such horribly conflicted babies.”

Giles sort of looks like he wants to hide his face back in the programming book. “No,” he says. “We, ah, have a bit more in common than I realized, that’s all. Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Buffy exhales, because she’s not sure if she wants to tell Giles this, but he’s maybe the only person who really gets what it’s like to be roped into destiny. “When I was twelve,” she says, “I-I got a soulmate mark on my arm. Like, a bona fide mark on my arm in a really nice color. But then I got a mark with just one letter, and then when I got called as a Vampire Slayer, that mark disappeared, and now I don’t have any mark at all, and I was wondering—”

Giles is quiet for a second. Then he says, “For some people, soulmate marks are a prediction of the future. For others, they’re a confirmation of destiny. I expect that both of your marks fell into that first category.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Buffy tries to come off as quippy-snarky, but she thinks she just sounds inquisitive and a little sad.

“Well,” says Giles, and rolls up his sleeve a bit, showing her the black W that looks more like a stamp than a mark, “I know that I must give myself first and foremost to my responsibilities as a Watcher. Whenever you have seen your mark, do you know and accept with certainty that that is who you will choose to give yourself to?”

Buffy thinks about the angry-twisty feeling she’d gotten when the S mark had appeared and she’d figured out what it had meant. She thinks about how determinedly she’d tried to get rid of the WDR for the sake of some boy she barely remembers, and how there still isn’t a mark on her arm for Angel. “Oh,” she says in a small voice.

Giles smiles, almost proud. “I don’t think there’s ever been a Slayer without a mark,” he says. “It isn’t something to be upset about, Buffy.”

Buffy feels, suddenly, near tears. “Not for you,” she says, “you’ve got a mark,” and storms out of the library with her arms crossed against her chest so she won’t start really crying. It’s her fault that she doesn’t have Willow’s name on her arm, her fault that she doesn’t even have a Slayer mark to define her, her fault, her fault, her fault.

Buffy bumps into Cordelia.

“Oh,” says Cordelia somewhat dismissively, then, “Oh,” a little softer, when she sees that Buffy’s crying. They haven’t actually talked since the Invisible-Girl thing, but Buffy guesses that that still holds some weight, because suddenly Cordelia’s grabbed her arm and is steering them both into a broom closet, shutting the door behind them.

Cordelia pushes on Buffy’s shoulders till Buffy’s sitting down on an overturned bucket. “If anyone asks,” she says, “we were totally making out in here,” and fishes in her purse for a handkerchief, handing it to Buffy.

Buffy sniffles, scrubbing at her face. “I want to be alone,” she says.

“You really don’t,” says Cordelia. “And you can talk to me about it, because you know I’m probably going to forget about it as soon as we’re out of this broom closet.” Her voice is almost purposefully flat, but when Buffy looks up, she sees half-hidden concern in Cordelia’s expression.

“I don’t know who my soulmate is,” says Buffy. “I mean—I did, but the mark went away. Twice.”

Cordelia looks at Buffy, and then she smiles a little. “See this?” she says, pointing at the dramatically swirly soulmate mark on her shoulder. “There’s absolutely no way to read something like this. It showed up when I was five weeks old, and my parents paraded me around telling everyone about how amazing and artistic my soulmate probably was. Fact is, I’m probably never going to meet the right person, and they’re probably never going to meet me.”

“Yeah?” says Buffy.

“Yeah,” says Cordelia.

They smile at each other a little sadly. Then Cordelia says, “Do you wanna actually make out?”

“Yeah,” says Buffy.

Jenny stops by the library on her way out of school and finds Rupert sitting on the library table, reading her programming book and muttering to himself as he tries to eat an apple at the same time. She finds herself smiling, all of a sudden, and when the door shuts behind her, Rupert looks up and smiles too. “This is complete gibberish,” he tells her ruefully. “Haven’t learned a thing.”

“I’ll teach you,” says Jenny, crossing the room. Their hands brush as she takes the book from him and their shoulders touch when she jumps up to sit next to him on the table. “Oh, wow, have you only made it five pages in?”

“It’s not really—clicking,” says Rupert. Then, earnestly, “I am trying.”

He really is. “You know what?” Jenny flips through the book before decisively shutting it. “This kind of thing should be done on an actual computer. You want to come over to my place, see how it’s done?” Rupert blinks, blushes, and Jenny adds, “Not for sex, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m very much about propriety.”

Rupert gives her this big smile when she uses the word propriety. Then he says, “I think, someday, I’d rather like to tell you what the W stands for.”

“If it ever comes to that,” says Jenny, “I think I’ll tell you about my A.” She means it, too; maybe she’s never going to have a real soulmate, but when is she ever going to meet another person who doesn’t have one either? “You still down to go to my place?”

“I think so,” says Rupert. Warily, he adds, “Am I going to have to listen to techno-music?”

“Oooh, I actually really like that idea,” says Jenny enthusiastically, grabbing Rupert’s hand and pulling him off the table with her. He stumbles, laughing—

“Giles we have an emergency—oh my god are you holding hands with Ms. Calendar,” Buffy demands breathlessly, more of an outburst than a question.

Rupert winces, looking sheepishly over at Jenny. He’s holding himself differently now that Buffy’s in the room, Jenny realizes; more reserved, quieter, less accessible to her. “Duty calls,” he says.

“Duty,” Jenny echoes significantly.

“Of a sort.” Rupert hesitates, then reaches forward, tracing the A on Jenny’s wrist again in what, if done by someone else, could be considered an intimate sort of thing.

Jenny opens her mouth, not sure what she wants to say, but Rupert’s already hurrying to follow Buffy out of the library. She watches him go, listening to Buffy’s half-laughing voice as the door swings shut. “So am I right about you and Ms. Calendar, Giles?” Buffy’s saying. “Are you two reeeally soulmates?”

Jenny lets her thumb rest against the blood-red A on her wrist, imagines Rupert’s mouth there instead.

The thing in the closet, it was something very quietly real, and Buffy thinks that that scared Cordelia. It scared her a little too, to be honest, the way it felt to kiss Cordelia, not hard and angry and biting like Buffy had imagined (hey, she’s sixteen, she can’t help her hormones) but soft and quiet, a mutual escape to somewhere safer than wherever they both were right now. Buffy would kiss Cordelia again if Cordelia wanted, she thinks, but she doesn’t want to get herself hurt, so she keeps her head down when they cross paths in the hallway.

It takes her a very long time to consider that maybe Cordelia was doing the exact same thing.

Willow’s off studying with Xander, today, and Giles is probably off pretending that he doesn’t have some totally obvious Watcher-crush on Ms. Calendar, so Buffy goes out on a sunset patrol, walking meditatively between the tombstones with Slayer grace. Brooding suits her, she thinks, she makes it look all dramatic-teenage-Slayer and she definitely pulls it off better than Angel, which makes her laugh a little as she walks.

“You look sad,” says Angel from next to her.

Buffy jumps, then huffs indignantly. “You can’t sneak up on people in a graveyard!” she objects. “That’s total bad form. I could’ve turned around and—and staked you, and that would have been awful to explain to Willow and Giles.”

“Yeah, I think Xander would have enjoyed hearing that news,” says Angel, and gives her a small half-smile.

Buffy smiles back. It’s not his fault that he was apparently always destined for her, even if she wasn’t all that destined for him. “Hey,” she says. “What do you think soulmate marks really mean?”

Angel looks surprised. “They’re just—they’re who you’re destined for,” he says, as if that’s where it begins and ends.

Buffy thinks about Willow’s TM and Cordelia’s indecipherable artistic mark and Giles’s painfully black W and something twists in her chest. “I don’t like that,” she says. “It makes things needlessly confusing.”

“Isn’t it supposed to make things easier?” Angel sounds genuinely confused.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” says Buffy somewhat derisively, then sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says, reaching out to quietly trace her initials on the back of his hand. “I really am.”

“Yeah,” says Angel quietly. “Me too.” He smiles a little. “We’d have been something pretty incredible, huh?”

“I think so,” says Buffy, smiling a little. “I bet I’d have made the first move.”

Angel grins, looking almost boyish. “Really?”

Truth is, Buffy doesn’t know what the future would have or wouldn’t have held for her and Angel. It’s sort of like trying to guess what would have happened if Willow’s soulmate mark had been her, or if her first soulmate mark had been the one that really stuck, and that realization makes her feel honestly better. But she doesn’t think Angel’s quite there yet, so she says, “Yeah,” because she thinks that that’s the kind of thing that he needs to hear.

Angel’s actually smiling now. It’s kind of weird, but still sweet. “Friends,” he says, and sticks out his hand. Buffy shakes it, giggling at the way his smile gets bigger like some kind of happy puppy.

They end up patrolling together, because Angel says he wants to do something more constructive than roaming around Sunnydale brooding, and Buffy says that she’s been feeling a little broody herself lately so maybe they’ll be good influences on each other, and it’s honestly the most fun Buffy’s had in a while. She doesn’t get herself caught up in his eyes or what soulmates mean or what it would mean for her to be his soulmate (okay, maybe she does a little, but she can’t help her hormones), and she stands on tiptoe to give him a hug at the end of the night.

“You’re looking chipper,” says her mom when Buffy finally gets home, sounding pleased by this fact.

“Thanks,” says Buffy, and goes upstairs. Neatly, in purple pen, she writes Willow on her arm. Screw ambiguity.

Giles has inadvertently learned how to use a computer, and Jenny (no longer Ms. Calendar, but decisively Jenny) is trying to set up one in his office while he reads from the Codex that Angel had brought him. “You know,” he says, “this computer thing is very much on a temporary basis.”

“Sure,” says Jenny, and smirks. “I still win.” She shrugs off her jacket, as though she’s not even thinking about it, and Giles’s eyes are drawn to her bare shoulders as she runs a hand through her hair. “Whew! Let no one tell you that setting up a computer isn’t a damn workout,” she laughs.

“You know,” says Giles, soft and thoughtful, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing anything that isn’t long-sleeved.”

Jenny’s bright smile seems to dim a bit. Self-consciously, her hand rests on her mark, and she says, “I don’t like people asking questions about things I’m not ready to tell them.”

Something falls into place in Giles’s heart, and he smiles shyly, reaching out to remove Jenny’s hand from her mark. “Well,” he begins.

The computer on his desk begins to shake. It takes Giles a moment to realize that the computer isn’t the problem, but the floor, which is rumbling ominously, and his cup of tea slides off his desk. On impulse, he grabs Jenny in his arms, pulling her protectively into him and then taking a stumbling step out of his office.

Jenny yelps as the bookcases on the opposite side of the library topple against each other, hiding her face in Giles’s chest. Giles stays still, holding her tight until the rumbling dies down and then some. “You’re all right,” he says, less a question than a reassurance to them both.

Jenny raises her head, hair disheveled. “Yeah,” she says. “And you?”

“Yes, of course,” says Giles reflexively.

“Rupert,” says Jenny reprovingly.

“What?”

“You do this—this thing,” Jenny makes a face, “you always say you’re all right even when you look like someone dropped an anvil on your head. It’s super annoying.”

Everything Jenny says feels a reminder of the fact that Giles is beginning to care very deeply for her. “I’m a bit shaken,” he says honestly. “But truly, Jenny, I’m fine. Now, about that prophecy I was translating—”

“Your library looks like it was hit by a tornado,” says Jenny indignantly, “there is no way you’re getting more work done tonight.”

“Actually, dear, it was an earthquake,” Giles corrects. Jenny gives him an annoyed look, and he sighs. “Look,” he says, “this prophecy truly is relevant and important. I’ll finish it up, and—we can—go out.” His voice softens at the end; he likes the thought of going out with Jenny. In any context, really.

Jenny gives him a reluctant smile. “Fine,” she says. “I’m gonna see if my computer got trashed.”

“My computer,” says Giles immediately.

“You said it was temporary,” says Jenny, looking amused.

“Yes, well,” Giles rests his hand over Jenny’s, which is still pressed against his chest, “sometimes I’m wrong.”

Jenny turns a soft pink and smiles in a way that makes Giles feel like the word holds endless possibility, prophecies and soulmate marks and destiny be damned. Reluctantly, she steps away from him. “I’ll get to work on that computer,” she says.

Giles gives her a grateful smile, inclining his head. “Thank you,” he says, and follows Jenny back into his office, finding the Codex facedown on the floor and paging through it to find his place again. He’s only half-translating, really, because he’s thinking about where he and Jenny might go for dinner, or if he should take her back to his place, because she practically lives off frozen dinners and he’d rather like to cook her something actually nutritious, and—

and—

and—

“Rupert?” Jenny’s voice seems like it’s coming from very far away.

Blindly, Giles reaches out in her direction, grabbing at her hand and holding it tight. “Buffy’s going to die,” he says.

Buffy’s wearing a tank top that’s Willow’s favorite shade of purple, and it matches the badly-smeared, indecipherable mess of ink that mars her arm this morning. “It’s my soulmate mark,” she tells Xander with a grin that holds a fire Willow hasn’t seen on her in a very long time.

“Yeah?” says Xander doubtfully.

“Yes,” says Buffy, and steps past Xander, eyes blazing-bright. She’s the most beautiful thing that Willow has ever seen.

Jenny hasn’t been able to get a single solitary word out of Rupert since the earthquake. He hasn’t explained why Buffy’s going to die, or why he of all people would be so affected by some sophomore’s death, or why the hell he would have gotten that from some ancient prophecy book. He’s just been searching semi-desperately through books that might prove his prophecy wrong, and Jenny’s been helping, because—because Rupert’s her guy. That’s all it comes down to, really, something that goes beyond marks and duties.

They’ve both been up all night, and Jenny feels like she’s about to pass out, so she calls in sick from the library phone and sits down in Rupert’s office chair. His office is a mess from the quake, but the computer is surprisingly still usable. She considers trying to set it up, then decides against it when she gets a head rush.

There’s a knock on the door.

“It’s your office,” Jenny reminds him, almost amused, “you can just come in.”

Rupert steps gingerly around a pile of books on the floor and places a mug of coffee down in front of a surprised Jenny. “From the staff room,” he says. “Black, like you prefer it.”

Jenny looks at him and feels unusually sentimental, and maybe it’s the sleep deprivation that makes her ask, “Do you ever wonder about what it would have been like if we were soulmates?”

Rupert blinks, looking genuinely surprised. “We are,” he says. Jenny freezes with the mug at her lips, staring up at him, and he elaborates, “I-I don’t, I mean, I’m sure there are others with a duty or a responsibility or something of the sort, but,” he smiles tiredly, “the—the fact that you’re still here, that you stayed all night, that—means something to me.”

Jenny nods, feeling a dizzy understanding. “You mean something to me,” she says. “I don’t know what yet, but—” She stops, considers, looks at the A on her arm. Doesn’t she owe her sort-of soulmate something of an explanation, even if it frightens him or drives him away?

“You don’t owe me anything, Jenny,” says Rupert softly, even though she hadn’t said a word. “Not a thing.”

Jenny’s eyes snap up to meet his and she all but slams the mug down on the table as she stands up, pressing her fingers to her mouth; that is the first—the only time she has heard someone say that to her in her life and genuinely believed it, and the way he’s looking at her right now, the quiet understanding—she crosses the room in two steps and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, remembering to breathe only when he’s holding her just as tightly. For the first time since that damn A appeared on her arm, she doesn’t feel alone.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Jenny’s chin resting on Rupert’s shoulder, and then Rupert says, “W stands for Watcher.”

“A stands for Angelus,” says Jenny.

Rupert pulls back very fast to look at her. “Angelus?” he echoes, and Jenny realizes that there’s a very good chance that Rupert, with his books and his prophecies, might know at least a thing or two about Angelus.

“Oh, it’s not—” Jenny winces. “God, if Angelus were my soulmate, that’d be truly horrible. Um, it’s sort of a,” she looks down at the blood-red A, “blood thing. I mean, a family thing.”

“Oh,” says Rupert, looking a little embarrassed. “Good,” and kind of looks like he wants to be hugging her again but doesn’t know how. The slightly teasing part of Jenny wants to stay standing alone, make him squirm a little, but after what she’s told him she feels like she needs the physicality of holding him, so she steps back into his arms.

“He, uh, killed—someone, a favorite daughter, a very long time ago,” says Jenny carefully. “My family gave him a soul as punishment, and—and I was sent here to watch him and make sure that he’s still suffering. They were going to send a cousin, but—” She flips over her wrist and holds it out to Rupert. “I got this, and that apparently meant it was my responsibility to come here.”

Rupert still looks somewhat surprised. “Do you—believe that he still deserves to suffer?” he asks carefully.

“I believe…” Jenny trails off. “I believe that I’m tired,” she says, “and I want to go home, and I don’t really have a home at this point, and I don’t want my life to revolve around some ensouled vampire to the point where I forget that I can be a person too.”

Rupert takes Jenny’s hand in his, tracing the mark again. Then he says, “Buffy Summers is the Vampire Slayer.”

This is absolutely the last thing that Jenny was expecting him to say, right up there with I’m Batman and I’m actually not British, and she has to hold back a surprised laugh. “Seriously?”

Rupert looks back up at her. “Seriously,” he says. “She’s the one girl in all the world—”

“—the Chosen One, yeah, I know, I’ve read up on Vampire Slayers,” says Jenny, waving a hand. “They pop up in history books from time to time—what?” Rupert’s looking at her with big, soft eyes.

“Nothing, I just,” Rupert’s blushing a little, “I like you,” he says.

Jenny smiles a little bit. “Yeah, I like you too,” she says, and adjusts her arms around his neck. “So. Buffy the Vampire Slayer, huh?”

“Yes,” says Rupert, his smile fading a little. “And—every Slayer needs someone to train and prepare her for her battles against evil. A, a Watcher.”

“Oh,” says Jenny, “okay, so—so your soulmate mark is—” She looks up at him, “That is really, profoundly sad,” she says. “I mean, look, I know that you have an incredibly important job, and that you probably got that soulmate mark at a weirdly young age, judging by how calm you seem about all that, but I think I’d go crazy if I had a mark that meant I’d have to watch a girl like Buffy die.”

Rupert nods, a jerky, almost painful-looking motion. “I’m halfway there, to be honest,” he says.

Jenny looks at him, then takes a step backward and shuts the office door, locking it behind her. She draws the blinds, carefully stepping around books and debris and Rupert’s still-shattered cup of tea on the floor, lifts the computer up to place it on the floor as well, jumps up to the now-empty space on the desk, and says, “Kiss me.”

Rupert does.

Willow keeps on thinking about Buffy in class that day, in a half-afraid, half-ashamed way that has her looking down at her soulmate mark every so often. She fingers the sparkly point of the M, wishing it could give her the same amount of comfort that it had seemed to so long ago.

There’s a boy out there who loves me, she thinks, but how many boys write in sparkles? The only time Willow’s ever felt sparkly and happy is around Buffy, but Buffy’s seemed distant and sad ever since Willow’s soulmate mark showed up.

Wait.

Ever since Willow’s soulmate mark showed up?

Willow’s already telling herself that she’s being ridiculous before she even really knows what she’s thinking, and has to fumble through five to seven layers of panic before remembering the curve of a W on Buffy’s ink-smudged arm. And, and that would explain Buffy being so dismal about Angel, and Willow thought she knew why Buffy wanted to know about soulmates but maybe she was wrong, maybe Buffy thinks that it should be Willow’s initials on her arm and not Angel’s—

Willow hurtles out of class five minutes before she’s supposed to, sprinting through halls and down stairs and nearly bowling over an indignant Harmony Kendall. It takes her what feels like an eternity to finally reach Buffy, who’s cheerfully putting things away in her locker. “Will!” she says, bright and happy. “What—”

“I’m in love with you,” says Willow, only it comes out as more of a wheeze and oh my god what did she just say.

Buffy’s face changes. But it’s not surprise or disgust or anything like that, just a wide-eyed hope. “What?”

“What?” Willow has somehow simultaneously figured absolutely everything out and gotten completely lost. “Well—” She fumbles for words. She hadn’t actually thought past get to Buffy, and was kind of hoping that the universe would help her out a little bit here. “I’m in love with you,” she says again, awkwardly, earnestly; it’s the only thing that feels like a concrete fact, and Willow’s all about the facts. “And—I think you’re in love with me—right?”

It’s sort of the feeling she gets right before she gets her test back in English or science or math, where she knows she’s done the reading and she knows the test was a breeze but there’s still that twisty fear that there’s a variable she didn’t account for. It’s that feeling, but magnified, because suddenly there’s something at risk that’s more than grades or college or anything like that; it’s been a long time since Willow’s put anything at risk, let alone her heart.

Buffy’s lips are parted like she’s afraid that if she moves she’ll get hurt somehow. Willow realizes with a not-quite-shock that she knows Buffy, she knows all the little faces Buffy makes and all the reasons why, and suddenly she’s letting herself feel things that she didn’t even know she could feel, she’s breathless, she’s flying—

“Right,” says Buffy. “Exactly right.” She still isn’t moving.

Every time Willow flips a test over, it’s never below an A minus. There’s something intoxicating about being right so often about—not everything, not always, but about the most important things. The ones that genuinely matter. “So we’re in love,” she reaffirms.

“You’ve got a soulmate mark, though,” says Buffy.

“Not a factor,” says Willow, because yeah, maybe she and TM might end up being happy someday, and maybe they won’t. “All that matters is that we’re in love.”

“My parents—”

“Are your parents,” Willow finishes. “We’re us. It’s like—okay, you know how usually puzzle pieces from different puzzles don’t fit together, but sometimes you get ones that do? We’re like that.” Her words are running together, now, and she wishes her soulmate wasn’t stamped on her arm like a reminder that Buffy isn’t the one the universe thinks she should have, but maybe, maybe, if she’s lucky— “I am never,” she says, “going to find another Buffy Anne Summers. Not even if I look in the back of the soulmate store—”

“The soulmate store,” Buffy echoes, half-laughing, sounding absolutely giddy, and grabs Willow’s hands in hers, kissing her without either of them even really thinking about it.

Willow knows, okay, she knows she should be worried about kissing another girl in public, she knows she should be thinking about whether or not this might get back to her parents or what Xander’s going to say when he finds out that she stole Buffy from him (only Xander never had Buffy, Xander had this idealized version of Buffy that he kept clinging to and talking about like she was already his, and really Willow’s the one who actually fell in love), but this is the first time that she’s kissed someone—at all, really. Maybe there were times in middle school a long time ago, or a game of Spin the Bottle freshman year, but all of that falls away now that she and Buffy are this close.

This is how soulmates kiss, Willow thinks. This is what love feels like. Nothing feels new about kissing Buffy, nothing’s changed; she’s been in love with Buffy all along.

Neither of them pull back—neither of them can—but the bell rings, and they both reluctantly break the kiss.

“Um—”

“So—”

They both laugh, shy and delighted. Then Willow says, “So what about Angel?”

“Oh, Angel,” says Buffy, and they laugh again, falling into step in the hallway with Willow’s hand tucked into Buffy’s arm. Willow feels a shy kind of happy, protected by Buffy’s smile. “Totally old news. We’re going to be awesome friends, though.”

“Yeah?” says Willow. “You should invite him over this summer. And Xander. We could all have one big sleepover party.”

“Ooh, a Scooby sleepover!” Buffy’s giggling. “I bet Giles could make popcorn.”

“No, Giles is probably busy planning his own sleepover,” says Willow significantly. “Probably with Ms. Calendar.”

“Ugh,” says Buffy. “I’m in my happy place right now, Will, do not try and talk to me about anyone else’s love life but mine.”

“Hey, nothing stops true love,” says Willow, and she and Buffy have to stop walking just to smile at each other.

Jenny says Giles’s name, very softly, and kisses his shoulder. Honestly, his office isn’t the most uncomfortable place for a romantic tryst, and Jenny makes everything feel so much better anyway, but Giles still has to pull back and figure out how to defy prophecy, so he mumbles, “We have some work to do.”

“We always have work to do,” says Jenny gently. “Just—give yourself a minute, Rupert,” and raises her head, looking up at him with bright, soft eyes.

Giles cannot for the life of him remember what it was like not to be this close to Jenny. “We’re going down to face the Master,” he says.

Jenny nods.

“We’re not telling the children.”

“You could have translated that prophecy wrong, you know,” Jenny suggests.

“I could have—” Giles huffs, irritated, and Jenny laughs as he kisses her. “I’ll have you know,” he manages between kisses, “that I am quite good at my job.”

“Mmm, I’m sure you are,” Jenny agrees, kissing him back.

Giles thinks of Jenny’s family and his responsibility, Jenny’s left wrist and his right, and feels like he’s found the half to his whole. And lord, he is stupidly romantic, ridiculously sentimental, nothing like the brave, beautiful woman in his arms, but something about the concept of Jenny by his side makes him feel brave enough to do anything. Pulling back, Giles says, “We’re going to face down the Master,” and means it this time.

Jenny breathes out. “Wow,” she says. “Okay. Sounds like a plan. What—I mean, how—”

“He’s underground,” says Giles, “somewhere, and, and I’m not letting Buffy die just because some book somewhere says she’s destined to.” He grins a little at her. “Books are wrong, sometimes.”

Jenny smiles back. “Never thought I’d say this,” she says, “but you are exactly right.”

“Ha ha.” Giles helps Jenny off the desk, then pulls her in for a last quick kiss. She hums, winding her arms around his neck with the clear intention of keeping them both there, but Giles pulls back; there’ll be all the time in the world once they’ve taken down the Master. “There are weapons in the book cage,” he adds.

Jenny makes a face. “Um, actually?” she says. “I think we should go home, get some sleep, and do this tonight, because I am personally ready to pass out and I definitely don’t feel up to taking down an incredibly old, incredibly powerful vampire guy.”

This seems like a good idea in theory, but Giles wants everything done and every chance of Buffy’s death eradicated from the face of the earth. On the other hand, though, Jenny does have a point, and despite his determination he is feeling a bit out of it. “All right,” he says. “Shall I finally see your apartment, then?”

Jenny stares at him, then laughs. “Yeah!” she says. “That sounds—yes!” She hesitates, then stands on tiptoe, hugging him a little awkwardly. “Let’s go,” she says. “We’ll get some sleep, defy prophecy, pull all that stuff off—it’ll be a great first date.”

Giles is genuinely smiling as they leave the library. Jenny is impossible, Jenny defies prophecies, and if Jenny believes it’s so, then he thinks he’ll take his chances.

Cordelia’s soulmate mark looks more like some weird work of art than anything, and it frustrates her beyond the telling of it. She wants someone’s initials, not something that makes her feel lost and small and forgotten in the swirly artistry on her upper arm. She wants something simple, even though she likes to pretend she wants something dramatic.

She’s mulling over this at the Bronze, sipping an orange soda through a straw and watching Willow and Buffy dance, when the guy next to her says, “That’s my tattoo.”

Cordelia looks up, startled. “What?”

The guy smiles at her, a strange expression on his face. “My, uh, on my back,” he says awkwardly, but he’s still got a sweet smile. “See?” He points to a letter hidden right at the bottom of the tattoo. “A. For Angel.”

“These things don’t always mean anything, you know,” says Cordelia.

“Yeah, well,” the guy gives her this dorky-shy grin that looks out of place on someone that attractive, “I think that that’s okay.”

Cordelia smiles too, scooting over a little so that the guy can sit next to her, and asks him, “Do you like orange soda?”

So Giles and Ms. Calendar show up the next morning with the Master’s bones. Not only that, but they definitely look like they had sex, and when Xander asks significantly if they had a fun after-party, Giles tells Xander to be quiet and Ms. Calendar gets unusually giggly. Buffy’s honestly kind of surprised. She wasn’t expecting Giles and Ms. Calendar to ever be able to get along, let alone bring down the Master without her. Some part of her feels weirdly ashamed of herself for not being able to do that kind of thing herself.

“You don’t exactly look as happy as we were hoping,” says Ms. Calendar, sitting down next to her on the library counter. Giles has gone back to telling Xander to not put his feet on the table, and Buffy’s girlfriend (!!!!!!!) is filing books and looking happier than she has all year. “Everything okay?”

Buffy exhales. “I wish I could have been there to kill him myself, is all,” she said.

Ms. Calendar hesitates, eyes flitting over to Giles. Then she says, “Buffy, uh, the reason we did it ourselves was because Rupert—” She stops, then smiles a little. “He worries,” she says finally.

Buffy gets the sense that that’s not the whole reason that Giles and Ms. Calendar killed the Master without telling any of them, but she also gets the sense that it didn’t come out of a place of doubt, which she thinks is enough for her. “And he can’t come back?” she says.

“We’re planning on making the bones into bone powder and burying everything in consecrated ground,” calls Giles from the other side of the library, pushing Xander’s feet off the table. “It’s not definite, but it should hopefully be enough.”

“Hmm,” says Ms. Calendar softly, and Buffy notices, for the first time, that Ms. Calendar’s sleeves aren’t covering her soulmate mark. There’s a scrawly red A on her wrist that she’s stroking absently with her thumb, smiling a little. “That’s actually pretty comforting to me.”

“Me too,” says Buffy. Then, “Am I allowed to ask about the mark? You and Giles are the only two people with marks like that.”

“Well,” begins Ms. Calendar.

“We’re soulmates,” says Giles, and gives Ms. Calendar this dorky grin that she actually returns.

Buffy blinks, debates further questioning, and realizes that maybe soulmate marks don’t have to mean anything at all. The way Giles and Ms. Calendar look at each other, the way Buffy felt about Willow long before she knew Willow’s middle name—that kind of thing doesn’t change just because Willow and TM are destined for each other or Giles is supposed to be a Watcher first and foremost.

Sure, maybe they’re all doomed, but maybe they’re not. Buffy doesn’t want to give up on happiness just because some mark on the wrist of the girl she loves says she should. Hopping down from the library counter, she crosses the library to kiss Willow. “Hey,” she says. “I love you, soulmate.”

“I love you too, soulmate,” says Willow, and gives Buffy that beautiful Willow smile.

[jennycalendar]

Imperfections (35/?)

ao3

“i’m not sure when i’ll next update,” i say, and proceed to update this fic the very next day lmao

Buffy heard the doorbell from her bedroom, waited for her mom to get it, heard her mom say “Oh! Faith!” and jumped up out of bed, running around her room in a flurry to make herself look presentable. “Buffy’s upstairs, still sleeping, I think,” she could hear her mom saying, “but if you want to wait here while I—”

Buffy found a nice pink top, remembered the time Faith said that she was wearing too much pink, tossed it to the side, remembered that Faith said she rocked too much pink— “Chill out, chill out, it’s just Faith,” she chanted, running to find the blue sweater Willow had lent her. Or, wait, maybe not that— “It’s just Faith, it’s just Faith—” She found a reasonable cream-colored top, a nice pair of jeans, and started changing as fast as she could. She was so not going to look a mess today, no matter how much last night had sucked for her.

There was a knock on the door. “Buffy?” called her mom. “Faith’s here!”

“Tell her I’ll be down in a minute!” Buffy shouted, throwing on a pink cardigan and starting to hurriedly brush her hair. Maybe the bed-head thing worked for Faith. Not that she was trying to find something that would work for Faith. God, she was a basket case. She applied some lip gloss, slipped on a pair of low-heeled shoes, decided that that was the best she could do, and hurried downstairs.

Faith was sitting on the sofa, wearing a red leather jacket and looking—stylish. That was the word, Buffy thought. Stylish was a nice word to describe Faith, with that soft-looking dark hair and all the nice Council-funded clothing that Ms. Calendar seemed to be getting for her. Except, you know, it didn’t seem like Faith was stylish in the same way as Cordelia—more like Faith was stylish enough to make Buffy feel a little jealous. Or dizzy. Or—something nervous and fluttery that Buffy wasn’t sure how to define.

“Hey,” said Faith, standing up and bringing Buffy back to reality. “Can we talk?”

“What?” Buffy felt herself blushing. “Yeah! Yes, totally! What’s up?”

Faith looked down, then back up. “Look, B,” she said, “I like you. A lot. But I’ve had a lot of people screw me around before, and I want to know you’re someone I can trust to be honest with me.” She smiled, but it wasn’t as soft as Buffy had been getting used to seeing. “I get that you probably want some of your business to stay just your business, but it’d be cool to at least know that you’re hiding your vampire ex from me. Or that you have a vampire ex.”

Buffy tried to smile. She hadn’t realized that Faith would know about Angel too. It had been comforting when Faith hadn’t; at least one person didn’t know how badly she’d screwed things up. “That doesn’t come up in conversation that easy, does it?” she joked halfheartedly. When Faith’s face didn’t change, she sighed. “I like you too,” she said. It felt—weird, saying that to Faith. More of an admission than she wanted it to be. “Things with Angel and me are never really clear-cut,” she said, looking away from Faith. “It’s—I’m not going to be seeing him anymore. He doesn’t need me to take care of him, and I’m kidding myself by saying I can be just friends with him.”

“So you’re still into him,” said Faith. There was a strange note to her voice.

Buffy looked up. For a reason that her brain didn’t quite understand, she said, “Yeah, but I’m definitely trying to move on, so—if you wanted to help me with that—”

Faith’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Um,” Buffy fumbled for a way to save face, “well, you know, maybe—maybe we hit up the Espresso Pump tomorrow, talk sad love lives. Except, you know, this time I’m honest about mine.” She laughed nervously. “Kind of a friends’ night out,” she added, not sure why she felt the need to clarify.

Faith smiled hesitantly. “I’d like that,” she said. “So—things are done with Angel, then.”

“Completely,” said Buffy with emphasis. “I—I’m always gonna care about him, but—my being with him hurt a lot of people that I care about.” She tried to smile. “I’m still going to miss him,” she said, and her voice caught a little. Embarrassed, she pretended to adjust her hair, trying to surreptitiously wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan.

“I get that,” said Faith. “I do. I—” She exhaled. “I know how it hurts,” she said finally, without looking at Buffy. “To know you can’t be with the person you want to be with.”

If Faith wasn’t Faith, and Buffy wasn’t Buffy, Buffy might almost think— “Espresso Pump,” she said shyly. “Tomorrow. I’ll pay.”

“Where’s Faith?” Willow asked.

“Oh, out.” Ms. Calendar waved a hand, walking over to the bookshelf and picking out a magic book. “I’m pretty sure she said something about talking to Buffy.” She knelt down, placing the book in front of Willow on the floor. “You know, Willow, if you want to spend time with me, it doesn’t always have to be under the guise of me teaching you magic,” she added, looking up at Willow in a way that almost seemed hesitant.

“What?” Vaguely, Willow remembered her words in the factory. “Oh.” She blushed. “I-I would love to spend hanging-out time with you, but I really do want to learn magic! I feel a lot calmer when I cast a good spell. And, you know, my head’s kind of a constant worrying machine, so—”

Ms. Calendar frowned, looking thoughtful. “Maybe spell-casting isn’t the way to go today, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Scoot.” Ms. Calendar leaned down and nudged Willow’s leg with her hand. Obligingly, Willow moved over, letting Ms. Calendar sit down behind her. “This isn’t exactly a magic lesson,” said Ms. Calendar. “I can do your hair if you want, though.”

Willow thought about how generally moms did their daughters’ hair, thought about how her mom had stopped doing that a long time ago, thought about how Ms. Calendar probably knew that, and said in a very small, very happy voice, “Sure. Okay.”

“Awesome.” Ms. Calendar’s hands tugged gently at Willow’s hair, untangling a few snarly bits. “Lucky I’ve got a few hair ties on me, or I’d have to call in Rupert. He keeps on using my scrunchies to roll up ancient scrolls.”

Willow giggled.

“Okay.” Ms. Calendar divided Willow’s hair into two sections, starting to braid one. “Today’s mini-lesson is that you can’t use magic to hide from what you see as your own personal failings or flaws.”

“I don’t—”

“Shh,” said Ms. Calendar playfully. “It’s a lesson, not a lecture. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But I said that thing about anxiety, and then you said—”

“I know. I’m covering some potential problems that might come up eventually.” Ms. Calendar tied off the first braid. “Hmm. Kinda thought this would take longer.”

“I got it cut short like you,” said Willow without really thinking about it. She winced a little. Dork.

“Please. I could never pull off braids.” There was a gentle laugh in Ms. Calendar’s voice that made Willow feel hot-chocolate warm. She’d missed this. “Anyway. Magic. It’s definitely one hundred percent something that you can use to center yourself, but you can’t depend on it to center yourself.”

Willow blinked, confused. “But you said—you’ve always said that magic is a tool to center a person. You say that all the time.”

“And I stand by it.” Ms. Calendar tied off the second braid, tucking an extra strand of hair behind Willow’s ear. “Shit. These are some really bad braids. Do you want me to redo them?”

“Yes,” said Willow happily, forgetting momentarily about the whole confusing magic conversation.

Ms. Calendar started in on undoing the braids. “I might have started you off too early,” she was saying. “You’ve got a gift, Willow, and you’re a quick study, but I think you need to learn how to be happy in your own skin before you can really blossom as a witch.”

Willow felt her stomach sink. “So—no more spells?”

“I didn’t say that.” Ms. Calendar tugged affectionately on one of Willow’s revamped braids. “Fact is, I like spending time with you, and I’ve really missed teaching you what I know. I just think our lessons need to extend beyond magic spells.”

“Meaning?”

“A lot more meditation,” Ms. Calendar replied, “a lot more time spent here with me and Faith and Xander—”

“Xander?” Willow repeated, startled, and turned around to face Ms. Calendar.

“He’s staying the night tomorrow,” Ms. Calendar explained. “Kind of part of a deal I made with him. Long story. Willow—” She hesitated. “Anxiety sucks,” she said finally. “But it’s so, so important that you feel like you have someone to talk to about what’s worrying you. Don’t bottle it up and let it fester, okay?”

“What if I feel like what I’m worried about is stupid?” Willow asked quietly.

“Then talk to Rupert,” said Ms. Calendar with a small, teasing grin. “He’s had to deal with kids coming into the library asking where the DVD section is. He’s a pretty patient guy, and he’s definitely not going to judge you for worrying.” She took Willow’s hands in hers, squeezing them. “Neither am I.”

“I missed you,” said Willow softly.

Ms. Calendar’s smile flickered a little. “Yeah,” she said. “I missed you too.”

Xander came over for lunch. “I was all where’s Willow till I figured she’d be hanging with you,” he said cheerfully, taking half of Rupert’s sandwich. “Is this going to be a thing again?”

“A thing?” Jenny echoed, frowning.

“You know, like it was over the summer,” Xander explained with his mouth full. Jenny gave him a look, and he swallowed. “I spent, like, almost all of the summer at your house until Giles came back.”

Jenny felt an awful twist in her chest. As much as she’d wanted to be there for the kids, she’d gotten very caught up in Rupert when he’d come back to be there for her. Even though she was fixing things now, she didn’t feel at all okay with how easily she’d forgotten about Xander and Willow. “It’s going to be a thing again,” she said definitively. “Though it might be a little hard to squeeze so many people into one house.” She smiled. “Clearly, we’re going to have to kick out Rupert.”

“And who would make you coffee?” Rupert inquired, kissing Jenny on the cheek.

“Oh, god, you guys got all domestic,” Xander groaned.

“You should see ‘em at breakfast,” said Faith with her mouth full.

Jenny waited for Faith to swallow before continuing. “I think I have an old air mattress if there are nights that you want to stay over, Xander,” she suggested.

Something in Xander’s face shifted ever so slightly. In a strange tone of voice, he said, “Can I stay over during Thanksgiving?”

This took Jenny aback. She knew things at Xander’s place generally weren’t that great, but— “That’s fine by me, but you’re sure that your parents won’t miss you?” she asked carefully.

“Nah,” said Xander lightly. “And if they do, they’ll look for me at Willow’s. They thought I was there for most of the summer.”

“I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” said Willow, sounding a little left out.

“Neither do I,” Jenny reassured Willow, feeling very happy to see Willow smile shyly at her. “Dumb holiday. We can all make baked goods, maybe invite Buffy over—”

“Buffy does a thing with her family, though,” said Xander. “She and her mom drive to her aunt’s or something.”

“So we save some baked goods for B,” Faith suggested.

“I can make pudding,” said Rupert excitedly. “And cake. And—oh, Jenny, have you ever had my icing?”

“Is that a euphemism?” Xander asked. Faith choked on her water and started laughing very hard.